STILL.

·˚ ༘ STILL, 20, science + philosophy — “My mind belongs to science, but my soul belongs to art.”

I write. (Sometimes… most of the time…) — veryyy open to writing reqs. so please feel free to drop any ideas/plots you have. i'm here to please you ♡.

as a uni student i try my best to post consistently please be patient i know i know

most work is 18+, (N)SFW. MDNI.

ੈ✩‧₊˚ works (hopefully more soon...)

the last part will come out next week for sure i keep delaying because i keep getting busy guys do NOT FUCKING STUDY PHYSICS but anyway—it’s drafted and needs some fixing up so please expect it soon! thank u for ur support my love!

ARE YOU FUCKING WITH ME? I MIGHT HAVE TO WRITE FRAT EREN AND FRATJO TOO CAUSE WHAT HELLO DOES ANYONE SEE MY VISION HELLO AM I MUTED

Eren fucks up your relationship, and is now desperately trying to get you back.

Warnings: Mentions of sexual activity, foul language, mentions of substance use

A/N: I originally was going to leave it after finishing part 2, but you guys are kinda eating this series up and now I'm unsure what to do... maybe I should just keep writing more parts until you guys are satiated with it. If you couldn't tell I love a good slow(ish) burn. Anyway, this is also poorly proofread as I've been terribly busy.

Enjoy, and thank you all so much for your support! I love you all so much :')

Love, Still.

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“Stress relief, Y/N. It was stress relief.” you sighed to yourself, feeling the ache eat away at your chest as you unlocked the door to your dorm room, pressing your hand firmly against your temple as you pushed the door open half-heartedly. Last night couldn’t have gotten any worse. You went to that party to get over Eren, not to have him eat you out against a wall, finger you until you cry out of overstimulating pleasure, and then loom around you the entire night before falling asleep together with him. 

You absolutely refused to let yourself actually feel vulnerable again. You couldn’t let it happen, not after how you let yourself feel for all those months. 

You made your way to the small bathroom within your dorm suite, dragging your feet along the cold floor with the usual exhaustion you felt after waking up, before splashing your face with cool water just to wake yourself up and really focus. On what you did, on what you let him do. On what you couldn’t let happen again. So what if he made you cum on his tongue and fingers, watched out for you the entire night and made sure you were safe, took off your makeup for you, changed your clothes for you and slept beside you? 

You hated him, didn’t you? 

Well, you were trying to convince yourself you really did. 

Was it working?

Not quite. 

You stared at yourself in the mirror for a moment, watching the clear dabbles of water drip off of your dull skin. You groaned softly to yourself as you leaned in closer, examining over your face, pulling gently at the sickening skin. You had shit to do, you had people to go see, you had a life to make for yourself, and you just had to look absolutely sickly today. You sighed in disappointment, and then turned around, looking through your drawers to find a towel. Just as you were patting your face dry, your phone lit up, lighting up on the bathroom counter. Turning towards it, you picked up your phone. It was a text from Eren. 

Instantly, you felt your guts twist in all the wrong ways, your eyes squinting just slightly in disgust, just at seeing his name on your phone. You felt nauseated. Sick. You hated this feeling. It wasn’t from disgust. It was the fact you loved him so much, it made you feel sick to your damned stomach. Yet, it also didn’t mean you weren’t still pissed as shit for what he did to you. 

eren: why did you leave?

You paused for just a second, eyes staring at the screen blankly. You had two options: ignore him, or respond with some bullshit. Just to be petty, you decided to respond with some bullshit.

you: why would i have stayed?

You froze after accidentally hitting the send button before thinking about what you were saying. Shit, was that too mean? No, you didn’t care how he felt. He deserved it. Being sorry wasn’t nearly enough to satiate you and your restless mind. After months and months of entertaining other women, he thinks one good night could just fix that shit? It was all rooted in your blood, in your firing neurons, the bitterness, the fuming anger, the hurt. You wanted to convince yourself you weren’t actually that affected by it all, but you were. You were more than affected. 

Sure, to Eren it may have seemed like you barely cared, but you did. You cared so fucking much, it made you sick to your stomach, just thinking about it all. All of those classes, study sessions, meetings, the party, it was all an attempt to distract yourself from the thought of him. Because if you spent too much time thinking about him, you’d run back. If you spent too long letting those thoughts linger, you’d ruin the little respect you had for yourself within seconds. The things he did to you without even knowing it, it was so fucking inexplainable. 

You drag the palms of your hands down your face, trying your best to ground yourself before you let your gaze drag towards your phone screen once again. 

eren: wdym why would u have stayed

eren: i thought we fixed things

eren: y/n what are you talking about

Of course he thought you guys fixed things from simple sex and a single good night. “Of course,” you thought to yourself, the bitter feeling in your heart overriding most logical thought in your head. “Of course you thought it would be okay,” the thought alone made you angry. Did he really think that a single night could excuse and disregard how he acted all those months? It didn’t feel like that in the slightest. Did he think it could be that easy? 

You hesitated to respond, trying to convince yourself not to say something snarky to him. Like – “Are you fucking stupid? You think tucking me to bed is going to get us back together?” or, “I told you I was done with your ass.” but then– an idea popped in your head. 

The idea of calling him stress relief. No, don’t do that. That’s too far. Would it make him feel half as bad as you felt? Maybe. Hopefully. Then, the idea of calling him stress relief became a little more appealing to you. Was it a little evil? Maybe. You couldn’t really tell at this point, your mind was clouded with anger. To you, it was completely justified. Yet at the same time, you worried about hurting his feelings too much. 

you: that was just stress relief, eren. get over urself.

Eren didn’t respond immediately like he had before. He left you on read for a good 5 minutes, before finally responding.

eren: the fuck?

eren: stress relief? you’re deadass?

You didn’t know how to respond. Yeah, no. That was a low blow, Y/N. You didn’t mean that in the slightest. If you did, you wouldn’t have said you loved him in the middle of him eating you out. But you’d rather have him believe what you just said over him thinking he had any sort of advantage over you. You wanted to convince him, just as much as you wanted to convince yourself, that you didn’t give a fuck anymore. 

You swallowed nervously before leaving him on read, shutting off your phone before you could conjure up anything worse to say. Ultimately deciding not to entertain any further conversation with him. The day droned on and on in a hazed blur; full of errands, two hour lectures, doing just about anything to distract yourself. Thankfully, it was working. You found yourself on auto-pilot, taking care of favors you offered to handle for others, emails, homework, assignments, reports, focusing on whatever task you had at hand. Doing anything but giving him a second of your thoughts. 

On the other hand, Eren was losing his goddamn mind. 

It started with the five minutes after he sent that last message. Five minutes that felt like an hour. He stared at his phone like it might buzz if he willed it hard enough, thumb hovering, jaw tight, rereading your words over and over until they didn’t even sound real anymore.

Stress relief.

The phrase stuck in his throat like glass.

He tried to laugh it off at first. A sharp, humorless breath through his nose. She’s fucking with me, he told himself. You always did that—said things you didn’t mean just to see if they’d hurt. Just to see if he’d flinch. He knew you better than that, right? He paced the length of his dorm room, phone in hand, then set it down, then picked it back up again not even ten seconds later.

Still nothing.

Just: “read”. His room felt wrong without you. Not empty—off. Like someone had shifted the furniture an inch to the left and his body noticed before his brain could catch up. Your spot on the bed was still slightly indented. He hadn’t fixed the sheets, and he won’t. He couldn’t bring himself to. The air still smelled faintly like you—your shampoo, your perfume, mixed with the stale scent of weed and alcohol last night. It made his chest ache in a way he didn’t have a word for. It started to hurt. He started wanting you back so bad, it started to physically hurt his chest. 

He tried to distract himself too. Showered too hot, steam clouding his bathroom, standing under the water until his skin went red and steaming, until his thoughts got loud enough that the sound of the water couldn’t drown them out anymore. Got dressed. Undressed. Changed shirts twice because everything felt wrong against his skin. Especially while feeling completely deprived of your touch. He grabbed his keys with the intention of leaving, then froze with his hand on the door.

If I leave, she might text.

So he stayed. Just for a little longer. 

By late morning, he’d opened your chat so many times his phone practically did it automatically. He scrolled up—too far—past messages he shouldn’t have reread. Little things. Inside jokes. Late-night “are you awake?” texts. A stupid meme you’d sent at almost 4 a.m. months ago followed by a voice message of you quietly cackling in bed that he remembered laughing at so hard his sides hurt.

How does someone go from that to this?

He tried to be angry. God, he tried. Told himself you were cruel. That you used him that night. That you’d always been selfish, always hot and cold, always pulling him close just to shove him away the second it got too real for you. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers digging into his hair, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. But he couldn’t, knowing he took a good amount of the blame, if not almost completely. 

Anger kept slipping through his fingers, replaced by something worse.

Confusion.

Because none of it lined up. Not the way you’d looked at him last night when you were high in his arms. Not the way you’d said his name last night when his head was between your thighs.. Not the way you’d fallen asleep beside him like your body remembered something your mouth was trying to forget. Not the way you’d said I love you—quiet, honest, like it scared you too, in the midst of him going down on you.

People didn’t do that for stress relief.

Was he just coping? He didn’t know, he didn’t know anything anymore.

Around noon, he finally forced himself out. Went to class but didn’t hear a single word, despite his best efforts. His notebook stayed blank. He tapped his pen against the desk in a frantic, uneven rhythm, leg bouncing so hard the guy next to him shot him a look. Every vibration from his phone—even spam emails—made his heart jump.

Still nothing from you.

By mid-afternoon, the panic set in fully. The kind that sat heavy in his chest, made his breathing shallow, made everything feel slightly unreal. He replayed the night over and over, searching for the exact moment he must’ve misread something. Wondered if he’d said the wrong thing. Done too much. Not enough.

Did I fucking make it all up?

He typed out messages he never sent.

Tell me what I did wrong. Don’t do this to me. Y/N, I’ll fucking beg, just tell me what I can do for you to come back.

Deleted all of them.

By evening, he was exhausted in a bone-deep way that had nothing to do with sleep. He sat alone on his bed, phone facedown beside him like it might bite. His thoughts kept circling the same ugly realization, one he hated more than anything else:

You had control again.

And you knew it.

That was the point, anyway. 

The idea that you could reduce him to something so small, so dismissible, made his stomach churn. Not because it hurt his ego. But because it meant he’d let himself believe, for one stupid night, that things could be okay again. That it was just one of your arguments, that you’d always done this and eventually, you’d be back in his arms. That it was fixable.

That you’d chosen him.

When his phone finally lit up later—not a message from you, just a notification—he didn’t even bother checking. He just stared at the wall, jaw tight, eyes burning, heart cracked open and left there.

And the worst part?

Even after everything, after the confusion, the anger, the humiliation, if you texted him right now, if you said come over or I didn’t mean it or even just are you awake?

He knows, without a doubt, that he’d go.

That’s what really ruins him.

Then, the first few days after that night are painfully sharp.

For Eren, it feels like walking around with a nasty, purpling bruise no one can see—every movement pressing firmly into it right where it hurts, every thought finding it again. He smokes more than usual, not even for the high, just for the way it dulls the edges. ‘Cause regardless, he can’t get you out of his system, no matter how much he tries. The burn in his lungs gives him something physical to focus on. Something simple. Inhale. Exhale. Don’t think. Or at least, try your best not to. 

He still goes to his classes. Still delivers stashes of drugs. Still answers texts about hanging out with his friends, with absolutely no intention to truly pursue them. Life doesn’t pause just because something inside him cracked open. But everything feels quieter.

He keeps catching himself reaching for his phone. Every time it buzzes, his heart jumps stupidly, traitorously—then sinks to his gut when it’s not you. He re-reads that last message from you more than he should. Stress relief. The tangent of texts of him asking if you were serious, just to be left on read for days. You hadn’t texted back, and you wouldn’t. You didn’t even consider it, thankfully. Yet to him, the words feel unreal every time, like if he stares long enough they’ll rearrange themselves into something that hurts less.

They never do.

You did your part, and you did it well. Even if it was eating you alive just as much.

By the end of the first week after that night, his room smells permanently like smoke and cologne and something stale. It lacked your scent once again, something he still hadn’t become accustomed to. He probably won’t for a while. He sleeps with the window cracked even when it’s cold, just to feel something on his skin. At night, the silence is the worst—too loud, too empty. His bed feels bigger than it should. He keeps waking up reaching for you, fingers brushing nothing but wrinkled sheets instead of your soft, warm skin. 

Every morning, he wakes up a little more hollow.

You, on the other hand, stay busy.

Pain is easier when it’s scheduled.

Your days fill themselves almost aggressively, like you had more plans than hours within the day—classes back to back, each of them being 2 hour lectures, study sessions, labs, errands, favors you didn’t need to say yes to but did anyway. Your mind stays occupied just enough that you can pretend you’re fine. You try your best to convince yourself that you are fine. That you don’t care at all anymore. But you drink too much caffeine. You forget to eat sometimes, more often than not. You tell yourself it’s productivity, not avoidance.

And most of the time, it works.

Until it doesn’t.

Late at night– every single night, actually. When your phone is face-down on the bed and there’s nothing left to do, nothing left to check off, nothing left to distract you—that’s when he creeps in. When the quiet presses against your ears and your chest feels tight for no clear reason. When you catch his scent on someone passing by and your stomach drops before you can stop it. When you think you hear his voice telling you something sly and flirty but it’s just the wind brushing against your window right outside and your cruel mind coping with itself.

You’d roll over. You’d stare at the blank ceiling, like it would contort and give you something to distract yourself with. It does the complete opposite. You think about how warm his shirt felt. About how careful he was with you. About how easy it would be to go back—and how stupid that would be. You wouldn’t risk that, you really wouldn’t. But you still had his shirt, resting over your chair near where you studied. It still smelled like him, but the scent was growing fainter and fainter by the day. 

You never text him.

Neither does he.

Though, part of you hoped he would again, even though you wouldn’t have responded either way. 

He sees you around campus more than he wants to admit.

At the library, once—your hair messily pulled back, brows furrowed deeply, fingers flying across your laptop like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. It didn’t, at least to you, in the moment. You were in the middle of typing up a long essay that you just had to get a perfect score on. He lingers at the end of the aisle, pretending to look for a book he doesn’t need, just to steal another glance. You don’t look up.

You look untouchable. 

Another time, he spots you at one of your usual cafés, sitting by the window with a notebook open, iced drink sweating onto the table. You were deep into writing something, maybe an organizational list, something creative, something enough to keep your mind at ease. For a moment, he actually starts toward you—heart pounding, rehearsing something, anything—

—and someone else slides into the chair across from you first.

A girl, someone from your class. She chatters almost instantly, quickly grabbing your attention with little care for her surroundings. For a second, Eren almost snarled in annoyance. Of course. 

He stops short, jaw tightening, turns around before you can see him standing there like an idiot.

He tells himself it’s better this way. Maybe it was fate, maybe it just wasn’t the right time to talk to you again. 

Walking across campus one afternoon, he catches sight of you ahead of him, sunlight hitting your back, familiar stride unmistakable. He almost calls your name, but he doesn’t. You’re listening to music, on your walk back from one of your classes. You were calm, unbothered, distracted–as always. He finds that it may be the right time to ask you to talk, just the two of you. Calmly, carefully. His pace quickens ever so slightly, eyes dead set on you. 

Then your phone rings. You pick up, and it’s someone from your hometown. An old, childhood friend, checking up on you. As you answer and the conversation drifts and flows, you laugh softly, distracted, already drifting away and focused into someone else’s conversation.

Every time he thinks now, something gets in the way. Or you look too busy. Too focused. Too far gone.

And then by the second week, the ache isn’t sharp anymore.

It’s worse.

It feels like it’s slowly killing him. It’s dull. Constant. Like something missing that he can’t stop feeling the absence of. He smokes more. Sleeps even less. Goes through the motions with a blank look that even his friends start to notice. He feels like he’s shrinking around the hole you left, rearranging himself to live with it. He attempted being around his friends, just to completely drown them out each time he was with them. Shit wouldn’t work, no matter how hard he tried. 

You feel it too—just differently.

You function. You smile when you need to. You don’t break down in public. But every night, when the world finally slows, you feel the weight of him settle in your chest like gravity. Heavy. Inescapable. Familiar.

Two weeks pass.

Neither of you says a word.

And somehow, the silence hurts more than the fight ever did.

One particular night, you stand behind the chair that his shirt rested on. Should you give it back? Should you keep it? Burn it? No, you liked the shirt too much to do that. You picked up the shirt quietly, bringing it to your face. 

The shirt was almost completely devoid of his scent now. It smelled like notebooks, ink, and the candles you’ve been burning in your dorm while studying. You almost frowned to yourself in disappointment. Maybe you shouldn’t have left the shirt here right where you studied, maybe you shouldn’t have burned all those candles for hours. But why did you care, right? He just had a nice scent, that was all.

That’s why you found yourself hugging the shirt while trying to sleep, letting tears fall from your eyes, brows furrowing as you nuzzled yourself closer to his shirt, wishing it was his chest. Wishing that you could go back in time, wishing you had changed instead of acting so hot and cold. Would that have made him change too? Was it really all your fault? 

You opened up your messages with him, wanting to say something, anything. But you refused. Because part of you was still petty. Regardless, if he had treated you the way you had to him, you still wouldn’t have entertained other people. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t serious, or if it wasn’t anything real. It looked and felt real to you. And it made you feel real things. Your eyes began to burn a little and you sighed deeply, your breathing hiccuping and stuttering in your throat. 

The next day starts as usual. You got ready for class, you got to class on time, you were focused, in your environment where you thrived the most. The moment class lets out, the building exhales with students. 

Doors swing open all at once, voices spilling into the halls in a sudden, overwhelming rush. The corridors flood with bodies—students laughing, complaining, calling out to friends, bumping shoulders without apology. Sunlight pours in through the tall windows lining the walls, bright and warm in a way that feels almost offensive after winter. Spring is finally settling in. Everything smells lighter—fresh air drifting in through open doors, hints of perfume, coffee, clean fabric, sweaty jock students. 

You step into it automatically.

Headphones in. Music playing just loud enough to blur the edges of the world. You weave through the crowd on instinct, body moving before your mind does, eyes fixed somewhere ahead but not really seeing anything. Lunch break means movement, noise, distraction—exactly what you need. You needed to refuel, let your brain rest for the next hour. Of course, not completely. Never completely, for as long as you were conscious, you’d be sure not to let your mind drift too far. 

You’re focused on anything but your thoughts.

Then you see him.

It’s not dramatic. No sudden stop, no gasp. Just a subtle hitch in your step, like your body recognizes him before you do. Your pace slows without permission, shoes scuffing the floor as your attention locks onto a familiar silhouette near the far side of the hall. Tall frame, tanned skin, brown hair tied into a bun, strands loosely hanging and framing his pretty face a little too well. Greenish blue eyes, a fitted shirt that hugged the same arms that were around you when you were sleeping in his bed just two weeks ago. You pursed your lips. Yeah, there was no doubt about it. 

Eren.

Your chest tightens immediately, sharp and uninvited. It’s been two weeks, and somehow the sight of him still lands like this—like muscle memory, like a bruise pressed too hard. He looks… normal. Too normal. Standing there in the sunlight like nothing’s wrong, like the ground didn’t fall out from under you. Had he gotten over you already? 

And then you notice who he’s with.

Mikasa stands close to him, angled just enough that it feels intentional. She’s talking animatedly, her hands moving as she speaks, her expression soft—almost fond. No, completely fond. She’s blushing, she’s shy, she’s fiddling with her fingertips nervously while talking, as if trying to express her feelings to him. Oh, for fucks sake. You swallow, not realizing how tight your throat felt. Eren rubs the back of his neck, a habit you know too well, and there’s a faint smile on his face.

Your stomach sinks.

Of course. 

You slow to a near stop now, barely aware of it, watching from a distance as people stream around you. The music in your ears keeps playing, but it fades into background noise, replaced by the rush of blood in your head.

They look comfortable.

They look easy.

To you, it looks like they’re laughing quietly together, sharing something private in the middle of all this noise. Like they’ve slipped into their own little pocket of calm. Like whatever happened between them didn’t matter, and mattered all at the same time. So this was what it was? This is how they looked together? 

Your fingers curl reflexively at your sides, your hands balling into fists. 

Of course he moved on quickly. Of course it’s her. 

You feel angry, you feel annoyed, you feel jealous, you feel everything you were keeping at bay for the last month since you broke up with him. You don’t hear a word they’re saying—but your mind fills in the blanks anyway.

Mikasa leans in slightly, smiling gently, her fingers brush his arm like she’s trying to subtly get closer to him. Eren doesn’t pull away right away. He smiles, small but real, eyes crinkling at the edges. His face looks warm. 

You feel sick to your goddamn stomach. 

It’s not jealousy definitively, matter fact—it’s way worse. Maybe it’s a mix of everything terrible you’ve ever felt towards him. It’s that hollow, sinking confirmation of something you were already afraid of. The quiet I knew it settling in your chest like weight. Of course, of fucking course he wasn’t going to be caught up on you when he had bitches on his dick every fucking week, trying their best for a slither of his attention. 

You should look away.

But you don’t. Your throats closing up, preventing tears from building in your eyes, your brows furrow deeply, you feel nauseated and suddenly lunch doesn’t seem appealing to you at all. 

On the other hand, Mikasa exhales slowly, shoulders dropping as if she’s been holding tension there for days. “Hey,” she says, voice softer than usual. “I wanted to… apologize.” she said softly, looking up at Eren. 

Eren blinks, surprised. His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, not out of charm, but nerves. He remembered being pretty harsh once he had completely cut her off. “For what?”

“For lashing out,” she admits, eyes flicking down briefly before meeting his again. “When you told me you didn’t feel the same way. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

He’s quiet for a second. The crowd surges around them, but he barely notices. 

“It wasn’t great timing,” he says honestly. “But I get why you were upset.”

She nods. “Still. I crossed a line.” He nods awkwardly. A pause. Then, gentler, “Are you… okay?”

Eren lets out a small breath, almost a laugh—but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Not really.”

Mikasa watches him carefully. “Is it because of her?”

His answer is immediate.

“Yes.”

There’s no hesitation. No deceit. Just truth.

“She’s…listen, I’m deeply in love with her,” he says quietly, like admitting it out loud still hurts. “I never really meant to give you the wrong idea. Anything I said before—about trying to feel something—it wasn’t real. It was just me being stupid and empty. Like I said before. It’s still all the same, Mikasa.” he affirms. A real rejection, for once. 

Mikasa’s expression tightens, disappointment flickering across her face despite herself. She steps a little closer anyway, fingers instinctively curling around his arm.

“But Eren—”

He gently pulls back this time. Firm. Clear.

“No,” he says, not unkindly, but firmly. “Let’s not, okay? I already told you the truth.” he continued. The conversation began to make him feel bitter, remembering how it felt to realize how much you had hurt.

The rejection lands heavier than she expects. Her jaw tightens, frustration flaring.

“Right,” she mutters. “Got it.”

She turns sharply and walks away, swallowed by the crowd.

You don’t hear any of it.

You only see the smile. The closeness. 

And by the time you force yourself to move again, your chest feels tight enough that breathing takes effort. You turn and keep walking. Because from where you’re standing, it already looks over between you and him. 

While you’re walking and taking deep breaths to attempt calming down, swallowing down any urge to start crying, a friend of yours approaches, almost scaring you and making you jump for a second. “Hey, Y/N!” your friend, Sasha, approached with the brightest smile in her eyes. “I’ve barely been seeing you around campus, I– are you okay?” she asked, cutting her initial sentence short once she saw tears in your eyes. 

You panic for a second, shit– was it visible? You began blinking quickly, clearing your throat, “Yeah, of course?” you responded like it was such an absurd thing for her to be asking. “Oh, well, I mean, I just have some allergies. Y’know,” you gesture around to the weather. 

“Ah, right.” Sasha smiled and nodded skeptically, but she applied no pressure. “Anyway, I was wondering if you’re free right now for lunch?” she asked. “There’s a new spot on campus, have you been? I haven’t, we should go!” 

Your first instinct is to say no, to go somewhere alone, cry alone, let it out. But then, thinking about it, perhaps Sasha would do better with distracting you than you would with yourself. You smile, “Okay, yeah, of course.” you respond kindly, forcing yourself to switch up, bracing yourself for her chaotic energy. 

Eren is still standing there when it happens. He exhales slowly, fingers flexing at his sides, replaying the conversation in his head—wondering if he should’ve said more, or less, or nothing at all.

That’s when he sees you.

Not your face—just the back of your head, half-hidden by the tide of students moving through the hall. At first, he thinks he imagined it. His brain has been doing that to him lately, filling empty spaces with you when you’re not really there.

But then you tilt your head slightly, and he knows.

Your walk is unmistakable. The way you move like you’re used to weaving through crowds, like you don’t want to be noticed. Your hair catches the sunlight, soft at the edges, and even from this distance, something about you looks… off.

You look tired.

Not in an obvious way—not slumped or dragging your feet—but in the quiet way that settles into someone when they’ve been carrying too much for too long. Your shoulders are just a little tense. Your head dips forward as if the weight of your thoughts is pulling it down. Your smile is forced and exhausted, despite being such a gorgeous sight.

His chest tightens painfully.

You’re walking beside someone—one of your friends, he thinks. They’re talking, leaning toward you, saying something that makes you nod and pull one earbud out. You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. It’s the polite version. The one you use when you don’t want questions.

God.

He takes a step forward without thinking.

Just one.

Like maybe if he moves fast enough, he can catch you. Say your name. Fix something before it slips further out of reach. His heart starts to pound, loud and frantic in his ears. Then you laugh softly at something your friend says, and they steer you toward the exit, bodies blending into the flow of people. You don’t look back.

He stops. Stands there like an idiot, watching as you disappear piece by piece—your jacket, your hair, the familiar line of your shoulders—until there’s nothing left to see but strangers. His throat feels tight. Dry.

You looked so beautiful it almost hurts. Not polished or glowing—just you. Real. Worn down. Still here. He can’t tell if you’re sad because of him or just tired from life. He can’t tell if you’re okay. He can’t tell if you ever think about him the way he thinks about you—constantly, destructively.

The doors swing shut behind you. Eren exhales shakily and lets his head fall back against the wall for a moment, eyes closing. He doesn’t chase you. Not because he doesn’t want to. But because he’s terrified that if he does—and you keep walking anyway—it’ll finally break him. 

A few days have passed since you saw him with Mikasa in that hall. You managed to survive that, but at the cost of your own livelihood. You piled under assignments, extra credit, things that benefitted you academically but almost seemed like a reach. Did you really have to attend all of these conferences? Did you really need to do that extra credited assignment, even with a 100 in that class? You were so hurt, you genuinely did, in fact get sick. You felt weak, you were dull. Nobody quite noticed, thank god. 

Now, it’s 12:47 a.m.

The dorm is quiet in the way that feels intentional, like the world has decided to leave Eren alone with himself on purpose. 

Eren sits on the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, phone heavy in his hand. The only light in the room comes from the screen and the faint orange glow of the city bleeding in through the cracked window. Somewhere outside, a car passes. Someone laughs down the block. Life keeps moving. It pisses him off. He feels everything way too much now, it’s like he’s losing himself. He pretty much already has. 

He’s high—but not comfortably. Not comfortably in the slightest. 

He’s the the kind of high that sinks too deep, settles behind his eyes and makes every thought echo way louder than it should. His body feels loose, boneless, but his chest is tight. Too tight. Breathing feels deliberate, like he has to remind himself to do it or else he’ll start coughing (which has already happened a few times tonight). 

There’s a half-smoked joint in the ashtray, burnt crooked where his hands started shaking halfway through. The room smells like weed and his cologne, layered over the faintest trace of you that still lingers no matter how many times he washes his sheets. He swears it’s real. He swears it hasn’t faded. Or maybe he was going crazy. It was probably both. 

He scrolls.

One picture of you turns into ten. Ten turns into months back. Your smile—unguarded, real. The way your eyes crinkle when you laugh too hard. A photo you didn’t know he took, you sitting cross-legged on his bed, wearing one of his shirts, looking annoyed at him for something stupid. You two were so good together. 

God.

His throat tightens without warning.

He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, like that’ll stop it. It doesn’t. His vision blurs just slightly, the screen swimming as tears well up despite his best effort. He exhales through his nose, sharp and shaky, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice rough, already breaking.

He hates how good you look in his memories. Hates how even the bad ones are tangled up with warmth—fights that ended in apologies, slammed doors followed by soft knocks, nights where you cried into his chest and mornings where everything felt fixable, screaming and yelling turning into moans and whispered confessions. He scrolls and analyzes photo after photo. Finds the time where you two were napping together, with your entire body on top of his like he was your mattress, drooling on his bare chest. Or the other time, when you gave him the cutest, confused look ever after he made a dumb joke that didn’t make any sense.

He thinks about the way you loved him.

Then he thinks about the ways he failed you.

That’s where it really starts to hurt.

Every time he brushed something off. Every time he entertained attention he didn’t even want just to feel something. Every time he assumed you’d stay because you always did. The guilt crawls up his spine, heavy and suffocating, settling deep in his chest. He hadn’t realized it before, but he did now. He has, for the past month-ish. And it’s killing him. 

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers to the empty room, like saying it out loud might rewrite the past. “I never meant it, fuck, Y/N.” 

His hand curls around his phone tighter, knuckles whitening. He scrolls again, slower now, masochistic. A video this time—your laugh caught mid-sound, loud and unfiltered, you shoving the camera away while telling him to stop. “Eren, I’ll actually hit you, quit it! It’s not funny!” you said with embarrassment and humor after you had spilled powdered sugar all over yourself. His own laugh in the video couldn’t be more genuine. 

“You look like a mess, baby.” he said in the video, his voice sweet and endearing. He watched you, the way your face melted at how sweet he was being before you rolled your eyes, 

“Yeah? You always look like a mess,” you retorted, making him laugh again before you gestured for him to come closer. 

“Let me show you something,” you said. 

He stepped closer to you, the video capturing your sneaky smile before you jumped onto him, pressing a kiss to his face and getting all of that sugar onto him next. 

“Ugh, fuck!” Eren coughed, choking on the sudden, sweet attack that he inhaled, followed by your little evil laugh. “I’m dying!” he complained before the video ended with you stealing his phone, kissing the camera next before ending it with a sneaky smile. A happy smile. 

He breaks.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

It’s quiet. Ugly.

His shoulders cave inward as a sound tears out of his chest, half-sob, half-breath. He bends forward, forearms braced on his thighs, face dropping into his hands. Tears slip through his fingers anyway, hot and relentless, dripping down onto his wrists.

He doesn’t wipe them away this time.

He lets it happen.

His breathing stutters, chest hitching as the reality settles in—the kind that doesn’t fade with time or distance. He loves you. He’s loved you through every version of yourself. Through the good days and the volatile ones. Through the way you cared too much and then seemed like you didn’t care at all. The times where you kissed on his neck lovingly while he wrecked you, the times where you threw shoes at him, the times where you slapped at his chest, the times where you cried in his arms. 

And he still wants you. 

That’s the worst part.

Even now. Even after you convinced yourself, and him, that he was stress relief. Even after the silence. Even after seeing you walk away without looking back.

His reflection catches his eye in the dark screen for a split second—eyes red, lashes wet, hair falling messily into his face. He looks wrecked. Ruined. Still undeniably him, still painfully aware of how badly he wants to be wanted by you.

He laughs weakly under his breath, shaking his head.

“This is so fucked,” he whispers to himself. 

The room feels too small. The walls too close. Staying here suddenly feels impossible, like if he sits still any longer, the weight in his chest will crush him completely.

His thumb hovers over your contact.

Once. Twice.

Then he stands abruptly, wiping his face with the back of his hand, heart pounding hard enough to make him dizzy. He doesn’t bother fixing himself. Doesn’t bother thinking it through.

All he knows is this:

If he doesn’t see you— if he doesn’t tell you— he’s not going to survive another night like this.

And that’s when he heads for the door.

While he’s in utter turmoil, you were busy. Barely awake, but surely busy. Not because you’re tired—because you’ve been forcing yourself not to be. You’re slumped over your desk, shoulders tight, spine aching, eyes burning from staring at the screen too long. You really needed to invest in blue light glasses. Your lamp casts a warm, tired halo over scattered notes and textbooks, the rest of the room swallowed by darkness. You’ve been doing this every night lately—working until you can’t think anymore, until exhaustion knocks you out right where you sit at your desk. You don’t even sleep on your bed anymore, just out of spite for those traitorous thoughts that kept haunting you at night. 

It’s easier than lying in bed. Easier than letting your mind wander. Easier than thinking about him.

Your inbox is open, cursor blinking patiently at the end of a half-written sentence to a lab supervisor who absolutely does not need an email at one in the morning—but here you are anyway, fingers moving on autopilot. Important words. Professional tone. Anything to stay grounded.

Then—

Knock. Knock.

Your fingers freeze mid-keystroke.

The sound cuts through the quiet like something sharp, wrong-hour wrong-place wrong-feeling. Your heart jumps straight into your throat. No one knocks on dorm doors like that this late unless something’s wrong. 

You pull your headphones off slowly, holding your breath.

Another knock follows. Softer this time. Unsteady. You stand from your desk. 

The knock comes again—softer this time. Uneven. Like his hand hesitates between every hit.

You open the door.

There he is. 

“Y/N—”

That’s all he gets out before he breaks.

Your eyes widened and you completely froze. Yet, before you could say anything, he continued. 

His face folds in on itself, eyes immediately filling again, breath stuttering like he’d been holding it the entire walk here. Just the sight of you up close makes him lose it. You’re the same girl he met over a year ago, you’re the same one that kissed his face for no reason, just to remind him that he was special to you. You’re the same one that fell asleep on him, grounding him through rough nights. He presses his lips together hard, like he’s trying to stop himself, but it doesn’t work. A sob tears out of him anyway—quiet, wrecked, humiliating. His face is flushed, his eyes are red. 

“I can’t—” he chokes, shaking his head. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t.”

You were frozen, eyes still slightly wide at how he looked, at how he was acting. He steps forward without asking, like instinct, like gravity. You stepped back, not to get away, but to let him into your room a little more. Your heart completely shatters. His shoulders are slumped, posture ruined, like something heavy has been sitting on his chest for days and finally crushed him. His t-shirt hangs off him just enough to show how tense his body still is, veins standing out stark against his skin, hands trembling at his sides. 

“Please,” he says, voice cracking completely now. “Please, I’m—fuck—I’m begging you.”

He wipes at his face with his sleeve, sniffing hard, eyes red and swollen and locked on you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright. 

“I’ve been trying,” he rambles, words spilling faster now, panicked. “I’ve been high every night, I’ve been smoking crazy, working, doing dumb shit, keeping busy—anything so I don’t think—but nothing works. Nothing. I still wake up thinking about you. I still reach over like you’re supposed to be there.”

Another step closer. He’s too close now. You can see the tear tracks drying on his cheeks. The way his jaw clenches like he hates himself for crying in front of you, but he couldn’t be asked to care anymore. 

“I know I fucked up,” he blurts out. “I know. I know I did. I entertained shit I shouldn’t have, I said things I didn’t mean, I was selfish, I was stupid—God, I was so fucking stupid.”

His voice drops, wrecked.

“I never wanted anyone else. I didn’t even care. I never did. I just wanted to feel something when you were pulling away and I panicked and I made it worse.”

He laughs once—sharp, broken. “Mikasa—I cut that off. Completely. I told her I didn’t love her. I told her I was in love with you. I didn’t even hesitate. I swear to you. She’s been gone since you broke up with me, I promise,” 

He reaches for you then.

Not confidently. Not smoothly.

His hands lift like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch you, fingers hovering in the air between you like they’re aching. You didn’t move, and he instantly took that as permission to finally hold you. One strong hand pulled you against his body, your bodies pressing against each other as he buried his face into the crook of your neck, leaning forward as the door to your dorm shut behind you two. His shoulders shake as another sob pulls through him, tears instantly soaking your soft skin. 

“I just want you back,” he whispers against your skin. “I don’t care how. I don’t care if it’s messy or slow or if you hate me for a while. I’ll take anything. I’ll fix it. I’ll do whatever you want—just don’t leave me like this. Please, Y/N. I’ll do anything, I–” he choked on his sobs. 

“I need you,” he admits, pathetic and honest and shaking. “I don’t know how to be okay without you. I don’t want to learn.”

“I’m sorry,” he sobs again, forehead dipping toward your shoulder, arms wrapping around your waist, breath hitching. “I’m so fucking sorry. Please don’t make me go back alone.”

And standing there, with his grip barely holding on, his body leaned into you like he’d collapse if you moved—you feel it hit you fully.

Not just how much he loves you.

But how much power you have right now.

And how dangerous it would be to use it.

You stepped back, barely catching your own breath. He didn’t hesitate. Eren moved forward like he’d been given permission to exist again—shuffling inside with that messy, wrecked energy that made your chest clench. His head was tilted down, sniffing, lips trembling, shoulders slumped like he’d been carrying all the weight of the world for the past few days.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. You just guided him toward your bed with a small gesture, and he obeyed like it was instinct. He lowered himself onto it slowly, almost reverently, like he didn’t trust the surface to hold him.

Then he collapsed against you, chest pressing into yours, arms loosely draped over your waist. His face buried against your shoulder, messy hair brushing your cheek, muffling the soft, uneven sobs that kept breaking through. You felt the warmth of him, the slight quiver in his body, the rhythm of his desperate, uneven breathing. His hard muscles pressing into the soft of your skin.

“I love you,” he whispered, barely audible at first, then louder as if saying it could stave off some internal collapse. “I fucking love you. I’ve always loved you. You’re… you’re—precious, Y/N. You’re everything. And I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You let your hands move on their own. One lifted, brushing his damp hair from his forehead. Another trailed down his shoulder, fingertips pressing softly against his upper back, dragging back and forth, small gestures of comfort without breaking your own composure. Reminding him that you really were there, and that you were in fact listening. 

“I don’t… I don’t know how to be without you,” he continued, rambling, voice thick with tears and frustration. “I thought I could… I tried to stay away, I tried to distract myself, but nothing works. Nothing. You—you’re always there. Even when I don’t want you to be, even when I’m mad, even when I—fuck, Y/N. I can’t do this without you. I just–” he choked on his sobs again. He was completely wrecked, completely fucking desperate.

His hands tightened around your waist, a weak grasp that somehow held him to you, grounding him. His face dragged from your neck to your chest, resting against your breasts, listening to your heartbeat. Every word spilled out in a torrent—confession, apology, fear, worship—all tangled together in the way only he could.

You didn’t answer. You just stroked his hair, wiped at his cheeks gently, and let him talk. Let him unravel. Let him be desperate, vulnerable, pathetic. You felt the weight of his body settling deeper against yours, his warmth seeping into your ribs, his tears soaking through the shirt at your chest.

“I’m sorry for everything, I’m so fucking sorry, I’m sorry…” he whispered again, muffled against your chest. “For the times I hurt you, for the times I made you doubt me, for… everything. I just—I need you. I need you, Y/N. Please, just—please don’t leave me.”

The room was quiet but for his soft, ragged breaths and the occasional sniffle. You kept your hands in his hair, on his back, wherever they fell naturally, steadying him without saying a word. You let him talk until the words finally ran thin, his voice slowing, cracking less, until the trembling stopped and his chest relaxed against yours.

And then, finally, he fell asleep without knowing it. Face tucked into your chest, one arm draped lazily over your torso, breathing soft and even. You felt him exhale against you one last time before the weight of sleep fully claimed him.

You stayed awake, tracing the lines of his jaw, smoothing the messy strands from his forehead, your palm resting lightly on his back. The room smelled faintly of him—sweat, faint cologne, something uniquely Eren—and it made your chest ache in ways you weren’t supposed to feel.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You just lay there, letting him rest, and let yourself think. About him. About everything. About how this—this moment, this closeness—didn’t fix anything, and yet it meant everything.

════════════════════════

❁ཻུ۪۪♡ Table of Contents.

CHAPTER 1.

CHAPTER 2. (1/2 OF PT.2)

CHAPTER 3. (2/2 OF PT.2)

CHAPTER 4.

Eren fucks up your relationship, and is now desperately trying to get you back.

Warnings: Almost entirely smut, foul language, mentions of substance use

A/N: This is the other half of pt.2. I've never wrote smut despite having read it so much... so it may not be completely amazing. I hope this pleases you guys enough. :')

Now that pt.2 is actually done, I don't know if you guys would want a continuation after this considering this was supposed to be a single long shot? Ahaha, I don't know. Anyways, enjoy!

Love, Still.

────୨ৎ────

All of his words burn into your mind. He was right, completely right. He was doing everything correctly too, taking accountability, apologizing, making change. But fuck, some part of you felt reluctant. Not even just reluctant, but… petty. You felt petty. It didn’t matter now that he had changed or wanted to change, you two were toxic for a reason. And you felt like being toxic back. Just to make him feel a slither of what you had felt the moment you learned he was entertaining other women. This wasn’t enough to satiate your cruel mind. 

You don’t say anything. Instead, you grab him by the collar of his black shirt that hugged his shoulders, his chest way too well, pulling him closer before crashing your lips against his roughly, letting out a soft sigh at the feel of his lips against yours once again. It felt right, fuck– it felt so fucking right for him to be able to touch you. Would you admit that? Mmm, no. 

“Y/N–” he stammered your name, pulling back out of shock and fear, his hands stopping just inches from your waist. 

“Shut up, Eren.” you demanded, not wanting to hear anymore of his words. 

He froze, looking back at you with worry in his beautiful eyes. One second longer, and you’d falter. So, you looked away before you worded another demand out of your pretty lips. 

“Touch me.”

The words land like a spark to gasoline. Truth be told, to you, this didn’t mean you were going to take him back. You didn’t know exactly what it would mean later. But you just wanted stress relief, after all, you spent this entire week doing homework, labs, assignments, meetings. Your body was tense. And he was the perfect outlet. He didn’t know that. For half a second, he just stares at you, searching your face like he’s trying to read between the lines, trying to make sense of what this means. His brain is screaming don’t misread this, don’t rush her, don’t fuck this up again, Eren you always— But then you’re stepping into his space, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, and whatever restraint he had left snaps clean in half.

“Fuck, I mean okay,” he breathes, and then he’s moving.

He backs you into the wall hard enough to make you gasp, enough to make your back hit the wall just shy of rough, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your waist, fingerprints pressing into your delicate skin, caging you in between the wall and his strong, heated body. The wall is cool against your back, the contrast sharp when his body cages you in, heat everywhere else in front of you. 

His mouth crashes into yours again— not careful, not gentle — it’s desperate and claiming, like he’s been holding this in for days and finally lost the fight. And that’s exactly what it was. He’d been wanting this, needing this like he needed air to breathe. The kiss is all teeth and heavy breathing at first, messy and needy, before it deepens into something faster, heavier. His lips move against yours like he’s trying to convince himself this is real. You part your lips further, giving him permission to slide his tongue into your mouth. You do the same with him, the two of you following each other with practiced ease. The noise of the party fades into nothing but a dull hum. All you can hear is the way he exhales against your mouth, the faint hitch in his breathing when your fingers slide into his hair.

His grip tightens on your waist. 

There’s something almost relieved in the way he kisses you now — like this confirms every reckless thought he’s had. Like this means you’re choosing him. His knee slips between yours, parting them ever so slightly. It’s just enough to press you closer, grounding and dominant all at once. You can feel that familiar heat building in your lower gut once your legs obediently spread. You’re getting wet, and at this point, you know how the night is about to turn out. He tilts his head, kissing you deeper, slower, like he’s savoring it, like he’s already decided this isn’t temporary. You both know how tonight is going to go. 

When he pulls back just barely, it’s only to breathe you in, forehead resting against yours.

“I knew it,” he murmurs, voice rough, low enough that only you hear. 

“You still want me.” he said against your lips.

 You can hear the smile in his voice. You didn’t even need to see it. 

You don’t respond. You don’t want to give in, even with his knee between your legs and his tongue in your mouth. But it didn’t matter to him whether or not you confirmed it with words, your body told him quite enough. His thumb drags along your jaw, possessive and reverent, before his mouth finds your neck, kisses trailing there like he’s marking memory, not skin. He’s careful not to leave proof — but the intent is unmistakable.

In his head, this isn’t just making out.

This is reconciliation. This is forgiveness. This is you coming back. This is how it always went. He couldn’t have felt more happy, more fulfilled that you were going to come back to him. 

Right now, all Eren knows is that you told him to touch you.

And he listened, the desperate man he is. 

He continued with his mouth on your neck, starting just below your jawline, peppering a few gentle kisses before placing hot, against your skin, setting your entire body on fire. Your hands come up without thinking, fingers threading into his hair, tugging just enough to ground you, to release some of the pressure that’s been coiling tighter and tighter since he cornered you up here. Your legs began to feel weak as your back began to arch without you even knowing it, your head tilting back as he moved his body closer to you, damn near sandwiching you between the wall and him. The moment you felt his hot tongue and his soft lips against your skin again you couldn’t help but let out a breathy moan, making him chuckle in response. 

“Responsive, are we?” he asked softly against your neck, his hot breath making your back arch further, your chest and stomach pressing into his own body at this point. You flushed in embarrassment, shit–you really didn’t want to give in to this too much. You wanted control, you wanted some sort of sense that you belonged to yourself. 

“You gonna shut up?” you asked, your tone snarky. Like a rough bite. He only laughed beneath his breath before continuing to lean down to leave kisses and licks, moving down slowly. He found his spot, his favorite spot on your neck, parting his lips to leave a firm bite. 

That would leave a mark. Just for a few hours. 

“Hngh–” you winced, tugging tighter on his brown locks, biting your lip gently as your breathing grew heavier with anticipation. This man seriously knew how to push your buttons. 

He continued after biting, moving down to your collarbone, sticking his tongue out to drag it against your sweet skin right there, the sensation making your gut feel even hotter. Your cunt began to throb, and at this point, your panties were definitely going to soak. Okay, fuck it. You needed more, and you wanted more. He reached your breasts before you knew it, and his eyes looked up at you. 

Fuck. 

Eren looks wrecked.

It was completely undone in a way that feels almost completely filthy, like you’re seeing something you weren’t supposed to. He’d never shown this side of him to you before. Hell, you didn’t even know this side existed. 

His eyes are darkened, that sharp green burned and deepened by want, pupils blown wide as they flick between your eyes and your mouth like he’s trying to decide which one he needs more. There’s a tension in his gaze, desperate and unguarded, like he’s barely holding himself together by sheer will. He’s honestly not holding himself together at all. He hasn’t been, ever since he realized he’d lost you. 

His brows are drawn together, furrowed in a way that makes him look almost pained—like wanting you hurts, like resisting hurts worse. And it does. Every emotion he’s been trying to bury is written there: need, frustration, hope he doesn’t want to admit to. His jaw is tight, clenched just enough to betray how hard he’s trying to stay in control.

His lips are parted, slightly swollen from kissing, still wet and catching the light when he exhales. He keeps running his tongue over them without realizing it, like it’s instinct, like he’s grounding himself. Each breath he takes is shallow, uneven—controlled, but only just. 

His hair is a mess from your hands, strands falling into his eyes, the neatness he walked in with completely gone. You can tell exactly where you tugged at him, where your fingers curled and pulled, because he hasn’t bothered to fix it. Doesn’t want to. Like leaving it ruined proves something. He wanted to leave whatever you left on him. It would prove that he was yours. Just like he had said earlier. 

But god, he looks at you like he’s starving. Like he needs you—not just your body, but your attention, your choice, your permission. Like one word from you could either save him or completely ruin him. He doesn’t look ashamed of it at all.

You’ve never seem him like this, so fucking desperate, so needy and desperate for you. It was killing you, and you wish you could hold yourself back. But remembering how he always fucked you, you couldn’t resist holding yourself back either. Just from the way your back arches into his hands, he knows you’ve already said yes before actually saying a word. “Fucking finally, Y/N.” he groaned under his breath as he carefully tugged the straps of your shirt down, unclasping your with a single flick of his hand. Your breasts were bare to him within seconds. 

The man knew what he wanted, what could he say? 

He paused for a brief moment, staring at your pair of breasts like they were a work of art before deeply groaning in relief, like the mere sight had him painfully hard already (it did). He leaned in, using one of his big, strong hands to cup one of your breasts firmly, bringing it to his lips, pressing a gentle, affectionate kiss before letting his tongue drag along your nipple. Instantly, it hardened under his teasing touch, making you moan gutturally as you tilted your head back in ecstasy. “Fuck, Eren…” you moaned softly, quietly. Well, you tried to make it quiet and soft. You weren’t exactly considered a quiet girl in the sheets. 

You two were right beside the door. Right on the wall. You didn’t wanna make too much noise, despite the noise of the party going on downstairs. 

Hearing his name on your tongue did things to him, and hearing this after thinking he was never going to hear it again… it motivated him. Dedicated him. Purely, just to you. A smug smirk drew on his lips, his ego boosting and swelling in his chest before he wrapped his lips around your nipple, suctioning gently, his tongue rubbing and swirling around the sensitive nub while his hand massaged at the flesh, a stimulating, pulsing heat going to your desperate cunt with each squeeze. “You really think you don’t belong to me when you moan my fucking name like that, Y/N?” he teased, his dominating, smug tone making you feel even wetter, hotter between your legs, making you whine at the lack of friction there. 

“God, I fucking own you.” he said it like a statement. Like it was a fact between the two of you. His breath was hot against your wet nipple before he pressed a sweet kiss to it. “Is this other one feeling neglected, Y/N? Do you want more like the needy slut you are for me?” he asked, tauntingly. You could only bite your lip and huff needily in response, your hair gently tugging on his strands, urging him to stop teasing and to keep going. 

“Use your words for me, Y/N.” he commanded. 

You were so wet that at this point, you didn’t care anymore. You just needed some relief, a good fuck from him and you needed it now. “Yes, Eren. Please,” you pleaded, looking down at his face that rested affectionately between your breasts. 

“Please what? Didn’t I tell you how to use your words?” 

This smug bitch. He knew what he was doing. 

You whined, throwing your head back. Your panties were completely soaked at this point, and your restraint was long gone by now. “I– I… It’s feeling neglected. Please touch me, Eren. Make me feel good.” you finally urged. 

God, you were so gone for it and he was so ready to give it all to you. “There’s my good girl.” he said approvingly before moving to your other breast to give it the same treatment. While he sucked and massaged, his free hand went from your waist to your jeans, unbuttoning them with ease. He tugged on the jeans, pulling them down just below your ass. He looked up at you while he worked his magic on your other breast, so fucking pretty, my girl, he thought as he glanced up at how you were moaning and pulling on his long hair. 

Looking from your face to your panties, he noticed that you were wearing one of the thongs that he had bought you the other day. His lips curved into the most shit eating grin there was, “Did you like them?” he asked, letting his finger slide beneath the band of them, tugging before letting it go, allowing the fabric to snap against your ass, making your breath hitch for a second. 

Avoiding his gaze, you turned your head, brows furrowing and lips pursing before you reluctantly responded, “Yeah. Do you?” you asked. 

“I bought them for a reason.” he responded before kneeling down in front of you, getting onto his knees. 

“Spread.” he demanded, knowing you’d comply without question. You spread your legs, feeling the built up heat from between your legs escape, the cool air of the bedroom brushing against your legs.

He stared for a second before he chuckled, now face to face with how wet you were before leaning in closer, parting his lips before dragging his tongue from the base of the slit and up, letting the pad of his tongue press against your swollen clit. He could taste you through the fabric of your panties. “Fuck, Y/N you’re so wet and I barely even touched you. This all for me, baby?” he asked, tilting his head to look up at you from between your legs. You could only nod eagerly in response, making him laugh again beneath his breath. You were already so horny you couldn’t even speak. 

He didn’t need any more words for him to make you feel good. He continued lapping at your cunt through the thin fabric at your panties, building up the wetness that had already pooled there. You let out small moans, whines, and cries with each lap of his hot tongue, each lick making your pussy clench desperately around nothing. Your hands found his hair again, tugging on it each time the pleasure was too much to bear. Before you knew it, both of his hands grasped at each side of your panties, roughly tugging them down to completely bare yourself to him. 

“So fucking pretty… all mine, isn’t she?” he mumbled before kissing your wet cunt, then diving in between your legs completely. He grabbed at your thighs, putting them over his strong, broad shoulders so that his face was practically shoved between your plush thighs. He swore, he didn’t wanna be anywhere else right now. Just his shoulders held your entire weight with ease. He held you up like it was nothing. 

Your back pressed against the cool wall, your shirt was undone, your hands were tugging and pulling and threading through his hair, just to find some sort of relief in the intense pleasure he was giving you. “Ngh…” you moaned, one hand coming over your mouth to quiet yourself down. You were one, thin wall away from someone possibly hearing you. You couldn’t risk that. He continued eating, strong, big hands grasping roughly at your thighs to keep you in place, his fingertips pressing deeply into your skin. 

His tongue glided through your slick, hot folds, kissing and biting on your sweet lips, swallowing up your juices and making a mess of his meal on his face. “Grind on my face, Y/N. Show me how much you want it.” he encouraged. Instantly, you held his face in place by keeping ahold of his hair, moving your hips and grinding down onto his face, angling him closer to where you wanted him. The second you did so, the pleasure came tenthfold as if it wasn’t already mind breaking already. His tongue wouldn’t stop or fret, keeping up with your desperate motions and movements with practiced ease.

“Oh, fuck– oh my god,” you gasped, your hand pulling even harder at his hair, while the other tried to grasp at the cool wall beside you, making him chuckle against your clit. 

“You can deny how much I own you, Y/N? But you can’t deny how good I eat this pussy.” he looked up at you, wet lips kissing your swollen clit. 

God, you knew it already. Did you want to be reminded? Not exactly. It was humiliating, how easily he had your legs spread for him after you swore you were done with him just a week ago. 

You were stuck in your mind as he adjusted your position, bringing one leg over his shoulder while you stood with your other leg. He pulled your jeans down further, all the way down to your ankles. Your thoughts were cut off with the sudden feeling of fingers gliding between your folds next, your body almost flinching at the sudden friction. Eren coated his fingers in your juices, sliding them back and forth until they were damn near dripping. He couldn’t help but chuckle at how wet you were from just a little foreplay. Before you knew it, his fingers slid right inside of you, making you moan loudly. Like, loudly. “Ah, Eren!” you cried out by instinct before instantly slapping your hand over your mouth. 

He grinned smugly, looking up at you. “What was that baby?” he asked, teasing as he bit gently on his bottom lip, getting turned on by how loud you were. His fingers only shallowly thrusted at first, getting you used to the feel of his big fingers stretching you again. Then, he began to curl them, starting it off at a medium pace. Instantly, the responsive girl you were, you moaned loudly with each curl of his fingers, your legs shaking around his head, your hand tightly smacked over your mouth. 

It amused him, how hard you tried to keep quiet, knowing how loud you always were. 

Eventually, he grew rougher with his fingers, just the way you liked it. He gave slow, deep thrusts, curling roughly right in the deepest part of you. Your juices drooled down from his fingers to his palms, oozing out of you like your cunt couldn't stop begging for more. His palm smacked against your clit with each rough thrust of his fingers, your breathing turning into crying pants as your back pressed into the wall, each moan growing needier than the last. 

“God–ah, oh my god, Eren!” you cried out, tugging at his hair as his pace grew. Fuck. You felt so fucking full, his fingers were so much larger compared to yours and it felt like he was already stretching you to your limits. You hated him, you swore you hated him so much after you had screamed at him at his dorm, slamming the door in his face, throwing objects at him. 

And now you’re at a party, (which was an attempt to move on from him), yet you have him brutally fingering you and eating you out like you were his favorite meal against the wall in a locked bedroom while everyone was just outside. The back of your hand came over your mouth as you bit into the flesh, trying to quiet yourself down. 

“Y/N.” he called your name, pausing his actions, making part of you whine desperately for more. You look down at him, his face smothered with your juices, his cheek pressed against your inner thigh adorably as he looked up at you. 

“Tell me you love me.” he said. 

His voice was pleading, but at the same time, it was a command. 

You loved him. Of course you did, you never stopped, and the feeling never faltered. It was just covered with anger, frustration, stress. You swallowed nervously, feeling your throat tighten, hesitating to respond. Not because you didn’t love him, but because you still couldn’t forgive him. You weren’t even close to that.

“I love you, Eren.” you responded, earnestly. 

Those words were enough to have him motivated for the rest of the night. 

He smiled softly, a tiny huff of relief escaping his lips before he delved back between your thighs, strong, big hands now gripping more firmly, keeping you right in place as he sucked on your clit. He pressed a kiss between each few suctions, making you tremble and shake at the stimulation. While he sucked and kissed, he didn’t forget about your needy hole, his thick fingers were still pumping inside of you, curling at just the right spots to make you genuinely cry. The pleasure was becoming overwhelming at this point, and you could start to feel your orgasm pending. 

“Eren… I–I’m close,” you admitted, your hands still tugging and pulling at his brown, silky locks of hair. 

“I know, baby. Let me keep eating this pretty pussy of mine,” he mumbled against your needy cunt, his tongue flicking back and forth at your clit while your juices dripped down from his fingers, down onto his forearm. It was almost embarrassing, how wet you were. 

You began to grind more on his face, your hips moving against his working mouth, growing more and more desperate to cum. He chuckled softly at how desperate you became, “Look at you… my girl’s so fucking needy…” he mumbled against your pussy, one of his hands moving from your thigh to your ass, grasping and kneading at the full flesh there. He groaned at the feel of you in his hands. The more he held, grasped, touched you, the more it felt like he was reclaiming what was his. Even though he didn’t exactly have to–you were always his. 

“You wanna cum, baby? You gonna cum all over my face like the nasty slut you are?” he humiliated, making you bite down on your finger in shame. You could feel it, your orgasm was growing closer and closer by each pending second and the pleasure was coiling so tightly in your gut. Your chest was heaving at this point, rising and falling with heavy breaths that escaped your pretty lips that he had just ruined earlier. 

“God, you’re so fucking desperate and pathetic for it, it’s cute.” he chuckled. 

You could only nod in response, the rush of ecstasy clouding your mind. “Fuck, I–I,” you stammered, your breathing going labored as you felt yourself being pushed over the edge, the feeling of his tongue working in all the right places, the feeling of his fingers stretching you out immensely, curling in all the right spots. He knew your body like it was his own language, each press of his fingers, each drag of his tongue giving off just the right sound from your pretty lips. 

“Cum on my face, Y/N. I know you want to,” he encouraged, his hands grasping even harder into your plush thighs and ass, jaw and face smothered between your legs with no remorse or humiliation with the way your juices were practically tainting his skin at this point, dripping down his forearms, neck, jaw. 

“I’m gonna– I– ah, fuck, fuck!” you cried out before letting your orgasm take over your body, your legs trembling in his arms, your cunt convulsing and throbbing around his fingers, your entire body shaking as your hips stuttered against his face. Your orgasm hit you for way longer than the half assed orgasms you’d given yourself this past week without Eren. And they felt completely inferior to the way Eren made you cum too. 

By the time your orgasm washed over, you were panting, tears in your eyes from how mind blowing it felt. You realized how rough you had been tugging on his hair and quickly let go before looking between your legs where his head was, trying to gauge at what he was doing. He let go of your ass and thighs and began to lick around them, not leaving a single drip of your cum or juices go to waste. After cleaning up your legs and your sloppy cunt, he gave your pussy a gentle kiss before cleaning himself up, dragging his tongue along his forearm where you had dripped onto him. 

You watched, riveted at the way he was obsessed with your taste. 

You swallowed nervously as he knelt back up, his height towering over you with ease as he finished cleaning himself up. 

“Hey.” he said casually after he finished swallowing the last drop of you. 

Your brows furrowed in confused shock and your jaw clenched ever so slightly. “Um, hi.” you responded. 

“You taste good.” he commented, his words making you blush instantly. You tugged your panties back up, along with your jeans as if you were embarrassed, making him genuinely laugh at you. 

His hands came over yours, slowing them as he looked into your eyes. “Relax,” he eased as he zipped your jeans and buttoned them up for you. “Nobody heard us. I think.” he smiled. 

Suddenly, your friends began calling your name from down the stairs, yelling as loud as they could to get you to hear them over the noise of the party. You jolted in shock, panicking as you quickly looked at Eren, who, still, looked completely wrecked. His hair was a mess, his face was still covered with your juices. He looked back at you without a care in the world, adoring your post-orgasm glow. You let out a panicked gasp and you quickly grabbed him, fixing his hair and wiping his face with your own arms. He smiled at the feeling of your hands tending to him. He missed that so badly. 

You opened the door, walking out, trying to act casual as he followed behind you, his face easily covering how thrilled he felt at the fact he just had you cumming on his face, on the verge of tears less than 5 minutes ago. “Sorry,” you told your friends as you headed down the stairs, Eren following behind you. 

The party breezed through in a swift blur. 

Eren had decided to stick around you, though you never explicitly stated you wanted him to leave you alone. You kind of didn’t. And so, while at the party, Eren never leaves your side—not in an obvious way, not enough to call it clinging. It’s subtler than that. He’s always just there when you turn, like he’s been keeping track of your movements without meaning to. When you stop to talk, he settles beside you, shoulder close enough that you can feel his warmth through the thin fabric of your top.

The house is loud. Music pulses through the floor, bass rattling your ribs, laughter spilling over itself in overlapping waves. The air is thick—smoke, sweat, cheap alcohol, someone’s sugary perfume clinging too sweetly to the back of your throat. You can feel the night pressing in on you, overstimulating and hazy, but Eren feels… grounding. Familiar. He’s always done this whenever you two went out. 

When you talk to your friends, he doesn’t interrupt. Matter fact, it was safe to say he practically didn’t talk all night. He just listened, one hand wrapped loosely around a cup, eyes flicking between your face and the room behind you. Every time someone new steps into the circle, his posture changes almost imperceptibly—back straightening, jaw tightening—before he relaxes again. Protective, but restrained. Like he’s reminding himself to behave.

You catch him watching you when you laugh. Not your eyes—your mouth. Like the sound does something to him. It did. You were a dream. 

At some point, he gets you a drink without asking. Holds it out to you like an offering. When you take it, your fingers brush, and it’s nothing—just skin against skin—but it sends a spark up your arm anyway. His thumb lingers a beat too long before he pulls away, like he almost forgets he’s not supposed to touch you like that anymore. 

You think he notices too.

Later, you slip toward the edge of the crowd to breathe, and he follows without a word. Someone passes you a joint, and it ends up between the two of you. He lights it, shielding the flame with his hand, knuckles knocking against yours. The smell hits you immediately—sharp, earthy, familiar—and when you inhale, it settles warm in your lungs. You didn’t do this often, but this week was a pain in the ass. And you didn’t trust anyone else but Eren to be taking care of you while you relieved yourself. Whether it was sexually, or… with other methods.

You pass it back and forth, slow and unhurried. Every time, his fingers graze yours. Not accidental. Not bold either. Just… hopeful. Like he’s asking without asking. Like he wants to take your hand so badly it’s almost painful to watch him hold himself back. He never got to, but it was fine. The brief touches and the fact you were moaning his name upstairs earlier were enough to make him happy. 

The high creeps in gently. The music softens. The lights blur at the edges. You feel heavier, looser, more aware of your body and his proximity. When someone bumps into you, his hand lifts automatically, hovering near your lower back until you steady yourself again. He doesn’t touch. Doesn’t need to. The intention is there.

People notice.

You catch glances from across the room—knowing looks, smiles, raised brows. Someone you barely know leans over to whisper something to their friend, eyes flicking between you and him. To them, it’s obvious. The way he stays close. The way you let him. The way neither of you seems interested in anyone else.

Others aren’t convinced.

You hear it in the tone of people’s voices, see it in the way they watch a little too closely. They notice the space you keep sometimes. The moments where you drift a step away and he lets you go. They sense the tension humming beneath the surface, sharp and unresolved, like a wire pulled too tight.

Eren doesn’t seem to care.

He laughs when you laugh, even when he didn’t hear the joke. Leans in when you talk, head dipped close to yours like the rest of the room doesn’t exist. He drinks a little—just enough to soften the edges, just enough that his gaze lingers longer than it should, dark and intent, like he’s constantly reminding himself not to reach for you.

You can feel how badly he wants to.

The whole night feels suspended, balanced on something fragile. To everyone else, it looks like the beginning of a reunion. To you, it feels like standing too close to a flame—warm, tempting, dangerous.

And everywhere you go, he follows.

By the time you get back to his dorm, the world feels like it’s lagging half a second behind you. 

The hallway lights are too bright, too sharp, buzzing faintly overhead. Your head feels light, floaty, your thoughts slipping in and out like you’re underwater. You lean into Eren without really thinking about it, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve for balance. He notices immediately. You’re high as shit. 

It felt good, to not think about anything, but to think about everything and nothing at the same time. No stress about academics. No stress about meetings. No insecurities. It felt like it was just you in your own world, in your own mind. You found nothing funny, but you were laughing gently. 

“Careful,” he murmurs as you stumble, bumping your head into his shoulder. 

He’s barely high compared to you. You can tell in the way he moves, grounded and deliberate, already slipping into that familiar role like it never left him. He unlocks the door with one hand, keeps the other at your back, guiding you inside. His tolerance was crazy, and the thought that he wasn’t affected at all even though you two had taken around the same amount made your nose scrunch in annoyance. 

His dorm is quiet. Dim. The door clicks shut behind you, and the noise of the night finally cuts off. The room smells like him—clean laundry, faint cologne, a trace of smoke lingering in the air. It hits you all at once, warm and familiar, and you sway a little where you stand. Part of you missed it here. Another part felt bitter, remembering all those arguments. 

“Sit,” he says gently, steering you toward the edge of his bed.

You obey without question.

He crouches in front of you, fingers brushing your ankle as he reaches for your heel. “Lift,” he adds, soft and patient. You do, giggling quietly when you almost lose your balance. He catches you easily, like he’s done it a hundred times before. Because he has.

One shoe comes off. Then the other. He sets them neatly aside without thinking, like muscle memory takes over when his mind shouldn’t be allowed to. You blink down at him, slow and unfocused. Everything feels heavy and light at the same time.

“Outside clothes,” you mumble, barely aware you’ve said it.

He pauses. Just for a second.

Then his mouth curves—not into a grin, not anything smug. Something softer. Something fond.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I remember.”

You hated it, you hated outside clothes on beds. You weren’t exactly a clean freak, but it was just how you were. You’d rather be naked than wear outside clothes on a bed. You had complained about it a dozen times to him before. And he always remembered these little things about you. He helps you stand again, slow and careful, guiding you through the familiar motions. Your jeans come off next—not rushed, not lingering. Just practical. Thoughtful. Like he’s done this before on nights when you were too tired, too drunk, too overwhelmed to care for yourself properly. 

He doesn’t comment. Though, he notes to himself you’re always going to be the most beautiful woman he’s ever damn seen. Whether you were throwing shoes at him and screaming at him, high and giggly on the edge of his bed after a party, or sleeping against his chest. 

His hands find the hem of your shirt, and he gives you a look that takes you a couple seconds to register. His look told you to lift your arms, and you obeyed without question, lifting your arms as his pulled the shirt up and over your head, setting it on the table beside his bed. He unclasped your bra for you, unable to not admire your breasts for a moment. It wasn’t even sexual–to him, you were a work of art to be admired at any time. 

He grabs one of his shirts from the dresser—an old one, soft from too many washes—and pulls it over your head. It settles against your skin, oversized and comfortable, falling past your hips. Just the way you like it. Just enough. You barely register it happening, but some part of you relaxes anyway from being enclosed in his familiar, calming scent. He guides you back to the bed, easing you down into your spot—the side you always slept on, even now. Especially now. You curl into the mattress instinctively, sinking into the familiar dip like it never stopped being yours.

Eren stands there for a moment, watching you. Quietly. Lovingly.

Then he turns away, gives you privacy without you asking. Pulls off his shirt, tosses it aside. Moves around the room with practiced ease—lights dimmed lower, door locked, everything settled like it used to be.

When he finally climbs into bed beside you, he does it carefully, like he’s afraid of waking you even though you’re still half-awake. He lies on his back at first, hands folded loosely over his stomach, staring up at the ceiling.

You shift closer without thinking. Your shoulder brushes his arm.

He doesn’t pull you in. Doesn’t take advantage. Just turns slightly, enough that you fit against him the way you always did. Familiar. Easy. Like your bodies remember before your minds can argue. 

The room is quiet except for the hum of the building and the slow rhythm of your breathing.

You fall asleep like that—side by side, wrapped in routine and memory—and for a few hours, it feels like nothing ever broke at all between you two. It felt right. It felt like it did before you two fucked things over to the point of no return. 

The next morning, you wake up slowly, head heavy and foggy, eyelids sticking together like they’re weighed down by the night. The sunlight sneaks through the blinds in thin, sharp lines, cutting across the bed and landing across your chest. For a moment, the warmth of his bare skin beside you presses into your body —and it’s intoxicating. You feel the subtle rise and fall of his chest, hear the faint, steady rhythm of his breathing, and for a second, you almost forget everything. Almost.

Then memory crashes in. The party. The way he hovered near you, patient, watchful. His fingers brushing yours as if he couldn’t bear not to touch you. The way he led you through his dorm, slid your jeans down, tugged his oversized shirt over your shoulders, gently setting you in your spot on the bed. The care. The closeness. The memory of being wrapped against him, the rhythm of your breathing syncing with his, the faint smell of his cologne and the lingering smoke mixing together, intoxicating and familiar.

And just as fast, the guilt and rage follow. The cruel cycle, the way he made you feel replaceable, how easily he entertained other people, how easily he made you doubt yourself. The way he loved you and ruined you all at once. Your chest tightens, stomach twisting. You realize how much you hated him for that—and how much you still want him, in the same breath. Just as you always did, even when you were together, despite his arguments and justifications.

Your hand drifts to the hem of his shirt you’re wearing, gripping it lightly. It smells like him. It’s soft and comforting, like a memory you can’t keep. You tug at your jeans, slipping them on slowly, deliberately, savoring the sensation of controlling something for once. You pause, just for a moment, to watch him sleeping, hair messy, mouth relaxed, and that ache in your chest hits again—familiar, electric, impossible to ignore.

But you can’t stay. Not because of him, not because of the warmth, not because of how right it feels. Because of everything else. The pettiness lingered in your brain, the bitter taste on your tongue.

The cool floor presses under your bare feet as you slide into your shoes. Your fingers brush over the door handle. You stop. One last glance at him. His chest rises and falls. His hair is mussed from where you tugged at it in the night. The bed dips slightly from where you had been. It’s almost cruel how normal it looks—how innocent. Almost like he’s not capable of what he did, what he is.

You leave. Quietly. Carefully. Like you were never there.

Hours later, Eren wakes.

At first, he doesn’t move, doesn’t even open his eyes. His arm stretches across the bed, searching. Searching for the heat that had filled the other half, the weight of you pressed against him, the familiar dip in the mattress where your body belonged.

Nothing.

His chest tightens, throat dry. His eyes snap open. Sunlight hits too bright, too early, and the emptiness feels sharper than it should. You’re gone. Every trace of you—your spot, the warmth, the soft curve of your shoulder against him—is gone. His hand lingers over the sheet, over the space you occupied, disbelief rooting him to the mattress.

Was it a dream?

No. The scent is still there, faint and lingering on the pillow and the sheet. The memory of the night presses against him like a physical weight—the joint you guys shared, the slow laughs, the quiet intimacy, the way you'd let him slide that oversized shirt over you. He remembers the softness of your skin against his, the way you'd sighed and melted when he’d held you in place. Every detail. Every sensation. Every moment.

And she’s gone.

He grabs his phone, heart hammering, fingers trembling, mind spinning.

eren: why did you leave?

Seconds later, the reply comes. Quick. Casual.

you: why would i have stayed?

His chest caves. His fingers freeze over the keyboard, eyes narrowing at the screen.

Eren: wdym why would u have stayed Eren: i thought we fixed things Eren: y/n what are you talking about

He rereads it, hoping he’s misinterpreting something. But no. The casualness. The calmness. The sheer dismissiveness. It hits him like ice down his spine.

Eren: y/n, i took care of you. we slept together again. Eren: why are you acting like this?

Then:

you: that was just stress relief, eren. get over urself.

The words hang there, heavier than any blow he’s ever taken. His stomach drops. His chest constricts. It’s the thing he feared and didn’t even know he feared—your detachment. The casual cruelty. The absolute impossibility of reconciling what he felt with what you just said.

He stares at the screen. His mind races. His body aches. He wants to text back. He wants to scream. He wants to claw through the words and reach you, to ask you to your goddamn face why you were like this. But the silence from your side is deafening. What the fuck? Get over himself? Stress relief? What was your fucking problem? He didn't know.

Shit, he didn't know anything anymore.

He sat there, phone in hand, heart pounding, mind unraveling—completely broken, completely undone, his stomach twisting and his heart pounding against his chest.

…and the screen still glows with your words:

"that was just stress relief."

Eren fucks up your relationship, and is now desperately trying to get you back.

Warnings: Smut (sort of), foul language, mentions of substance use.

A/N: This is part 2 of DOPAMINE! I was at first wondering whether or not it would be a single longshot or a couple chapters or maybe even an entire FF, and eventually I settled on a longshot, but I was so so sooo happy to write a part 2 for you guys, and I will always be happy to write more if there's demand for it. But overall, sorry if this comes off a little unstructured.

This part is going to be split into two since I made it a little long. So technically I'm posting two parts to one? So then there's three parts overall? Complicated, I know. I'm sorry. Anyway, maybe I should make pt.2 and leave it or write more I don't really know, haha. It depends on what you guys want ♡. I guess we'll see how this goes. Enjoy!

Love, Still.

────୨ৎ────

“Fuck,” Eren cursed beneath his breath, his dark brows furrowed in deep frustration. He couldn’t fucking believe you’d do something like that to him, to fuck around with a twink that was half his size, and to shove it in his face. You were so cruel. He pushed himself off the kitchen counters of his dorm room and made his way to his bedroom, the entire dorm set in a cold, tense atmosphere.

It’s dark outside, the kind of late-night dark where campus lights barely cut through the windows, and inside isn’t much brighter. He never cared to turn on the lamps in here either. The dorm suite feels intentionally dim, like Eren prefers it that way. And he did, of course. The living space is minimalistic—bare walls, muted colors, furniture chosen for function rather than comfort—but not exactly pristine. A black, old hoodie is draped over the back of a chair, textbooks stacked unevenly on the coffee table with folded corners and highlighted pages, a couple of empty cups left where he forgot about them. There’s evidence of bad habits too: a lighter on the counter, a small stash tucked out of sight, the faint suggestion that he doesn’t sleep as much as he should. The kitchen is clean enough but clearly underused, just the basics, nothing extra. It feels lived-in, but barely—like he’s always halfway out the door.

The dorm is a suite-style setup, split cleanly between shared and private spaces. His roommate exists only in traces—shoes by the door, a closed bedroom down the hall—but Eren’s presence dominates the place. When you step into his bedroom, it’s quieter somehow. Smaller. Darker. The curtains are usually half-drawn, letting in only slivers of streetlight that catch on the edges of his desk and bed frame. The room is stripped down to essentials: a low bed with dark sheets slightly rumpled, a desk cluttered with notebooks, loose papers, and the occasional discarded shirt. Nothing is carefully arranged, but nothing is chaotic either. Just controlled mess, like he knows exactly where everything is. 

A few blunts rested on the coffee table, along with the stash he had for his next client. The air in his room smells unmistakably like him. A deep, clean cologne—warm, a little woody, masculine—something subtle but addictive. It’s not overpowering, not sharp; it lingers instead, settling into the fabric of his clothes and the sheets, hanging faintly in the air long after he’s gone. Mixed with it is the quiet scent of night, of paper and fabric and something restless. It’s the kind of room that feels private, almost off-limits—like stepping into his head and realizing he doesn’t let many people stay long. Except for you, of course.

You’ve spent nights here. You’ve fucked raw here. You’ve been here, more than anyone else. And the more he remembered that, the more he felt like he needed to get you out of his system. Not entirely–he would miss you. But just for a moment, just to keep him close to the small amount of sanity he had. Eren is sprawled in the low light of his bedroom, the room lit only by the faint glow slipping through the curtains and the small lamp by his desk that he never bothers to turn all the way up. Shadows cling to him easily. He’s relaxed in that dangerous, undone way, sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, shoulders slightly hunched like the weight of the world never really leaves him.

His hair is loose, messy, falling into his eyes as he looks down at what he’s holding. He’s changed out of whatever he wore that day—just a dark T-shirt stretched across his broad, muscular chest that used to have marks from you, worn thin from too many washes, and sweats hanging low on his hips. Barefoot. Comfortable. Unguarded, but only because he’s alone. 

The blunt is pinched between his fingers like it belongs there, like this is routine. And it typically was. His hands are steady, practiced, veins faintly visible under his skin. He flicks the lighter once, then again, the brief flare of orange illuminating his face—sharp jaw, tired eyes, that familiar intensity even when he’s doing nothing at all. For a second, the light catches the green of his eyes, and he looks almost unreal. Too bad you weren’t there to see it. 

When he brings it to his lips, he exhales slowly first, like he’s clearing space for the calm he’s chasing. The scent of his cologne is stronger in here—warm, masculine, lingering in the air—and it mixes with the faint, earthy smell of smoke, wrapping the room in something heavy and intimate. The kind of smell that sticks to clothes, to skin, to memory.

He leans back against the bed once he’s done lighting it, gaze drifting to nothing in particular. Smoke curls lazily toward the ceiling, disappearing into the dark like his thoughts tend to do. For once, his shoulders loosen. His jaw unclenches. He looks almost peaceful—but there’s still something restless under it all, something simmering just beneath the surface.

This is Eren alone. No expectations. No eyes on him. Just the quiet, the darkness, and the moment before everything catches up again. His phone dinged and for just a split second, he jolted, thinking that it was you that had changed your mind, especially after the gifts. If not, maybe you would at least thank him? He didn’t know. He was hopeful. He was desperate. But instead, it was one of his clients, texting and checking in to make sure he was to deliver tomorrow evening at five. 

Oh, for fucks sake. Eren rolled his eyes, exhaling with a hint of heaviness in his chest before grabbing his phone lazily with his free hand that wasn’t holding his sanity. He unlocked his phone and responded with a brief– “Yeah.”

And just before he was about to shut off his phone, he saw your name in his messages. Just the name made him feel sick to his stomach. It made his stomach twist and flutter in all the wrong, twisted ways. His furrowed brows deepened as he clicked on your message DMs, his body working for him instead of his head. Scrolling past his tangent of pleads and rants that he’d left you from when you broke up with him, he wanted to read your messages from when you actually cared. And don’t get him wrong– he knew he was mainly in the wrong for why you guys separated. But you weren’t exactly perfect either. 

The smart, independent, accomplished girl you were. It was never a bad thing– you prioritizing yourself– but it damn near became obsessive. You stopped caring about distractions, you almost deemed your relationship with him a distraction at one point when you were getting anything else but perfect scores on your quizzes, tests, assignments, exams. When winter finals season came around, that was when things were the worst. And maybe the best too, since you two fucked every single time you were stressed. "It's for stress relief, baby." you'd said when he told you he was convinced you were just a freak.

And yet, at the same time, you cared way too fucking much. You wouldn’t talk to him for hours on hours, focused on cram studying, on meetings with important business randoms, on making a name for yourself, but whenever you were free and he didn’t respond for more than 10 minutes? You freaked. Whenever he wasn’t always at your beck and call? You panicked, you got pissed. And that was how you were for a little while since the semester started. 

Things in the very beginning, that entire year ago, was perfect. It was in the summer, and you had met him through your mutual friend, Sasha. Since then, you two became close to each other. The closest out of anyone else in that group. Sure, you two had been pretty toxic the entire time, but the arguments were shallow, and the problems weren’t rooted half as deeply.

His breathing caught as he scrolled past your old messages, eventually finding evidence of when you guys were actually doing well for a small amount of time before he fucked things over. 

You told each other goodnight, you were texting all night about your nerdy interests, about his nerdy interests, about how much you loved each other and why. He remembered that night, you guys texting for hours on end about useless, meaningless things, and then again, heartfelt things that meant the world to him. And to you, at one point. It probably didn't anymore.

Eventually, he paused on a message he had sent, one where he wrote about how much he loved you, and why. His brow almost raised as if he couldn’t believe he told you this much about his true feelings back then. He guessed he also turned into the worst version of himself now. 

Exiting out of your guys’ messages, he went to your Instagram, missing your sweet face despite the look it had when you gave him that blunt rejection at your dorm room.

He briefly took a hit of his blunt, exhaling slowly and letting the smoke curl around his face. Noticing the smell of it, his nose scrunched and he went to open up his window a little before getting back to the real deal. You didn’t post much on your Instagram, but boy, were you popular. Despite not exactly being a “big circle” kind of girl, you had a lot of followers on Instagram and a really good social image. It made him smitten, knowing he had you.

You didn’t post anything today, but that was no problem. You had enough in your posts and highlights to satiate him. Eventually, he found pictures of you from when you were getting ready to go on a date. With him. It was one of your few nicer dates, typically you two would stay in, go to the movies, go on walks, but he took you out to a nice dinner that night before fucking you stupid in your own bed, that same dress torn off your skin a few hours later. The dress that you had on fit you too well, the colors complimenting your skin. Honestly, you looked ethereal that night. Just as ethereal, if not more than in those photos you posted. 

There was no doubt about it now, he missed you, more than he was okay with. But this was the punishment he received for doing what he did between you two, for pushing you past your limits, seemingly for good. He tossed his phone to the other side of his bed, groaning under his breath. He did this to forget about you for a little, not to stalk your fucking Instagram like a goon that could never have you. He did have you. He always did, and he would again, once you realized nobody could ever love you the way he did. 

Twisted thoughts in his head slowly began to dissipate once he really was high, leaning back on his bed against the headboard, the back of his hand covering lazily over his eyes. 

But overall?

Tonight, being high didn't make Eren feel lighter the way he wanted it to—it just made everything louder. Which was the absolute goddamn opposite of what he wanted. 

He stayed in his room the whole time, laying on his bed. Door locked. Lights off. The only movement is him pacing once, then dropping back onto the bed like gravity keeps winning. Smoke hangs low in the air, mixing with the familiar scent of his cologne and fabric softener, settling into his sheets. He puts music on but keeps skipping songs because none of them sound right. Nothing fits the way it used to.

He lies back eventually, letting his body do what it wants, staring at the ceiling, blunt balanced between his fingers like an afterthought. His body feels heavy, loose, detached—but his mind won’t shut the fuck up. In fact, it was probably worse than it was before. Polluted with thoughts and memories of you. Every thought drifts back to you, the way you used to sit on this very bed, making the most expressive faces and random gasps at whatever you guys were watching. The way you’d steal his hoodies from the small closet across the room from his bed and never give them back. He let you keep them, he always did. They looked better on you anyway. 

A week isn’t long enough. He knows that now. Being high only sharpens it, stretches the ache out until it fills his chest, eventually killing him. He thinks about texting you too, thumb hovering over your name more than once, phone warm in his hand. He types. Deletes. Types again. Nothing feels right. Nothing feels enough. He doesn’t want to sound desperate—doesn’t want you to know how badly he’s unraveling without you—but the truth is, he’s been thinking about you nonstop. He fucking yearning for just the smell of you, the authentic smell of your sweet skin. 

He replays moments he shouldn’t: your laugh in the dark when he says something that makes no sense, your head on his shoulder while you guys scroll together on social media apps, waiting to fall asleep, the way you’d look at him like he was something solid, something safe. Especially after rough fucks. The high makes those memories vivid, almost cruel. So goddamn cruel. For a second, he swears he can feel you next to him, like if he just turned his head you’d be there again.

Instead, there’s only empty space and rumpled sheets.

He presses his forearm over his eyes, jaw tight, swallowing down the urge to get up and go find you again. He tells himself that it was over, that you had that twink in your sheets instead. But honestly he couldn’t accept that. Yearning sits in his chest like a bruise he keeps pressing on, over and over, just to feel something different.

By the time the high starts to fade, the room smells like smoke and him and loss. He hasn’t slept. He hasn’t moved much either. Just Eren, alone in the dark, wishing he could rewind time—or at least make missing you hurt less.

It doesn’t. And it probably never will. 

The next day doesn’t feel real to him. Not fully, it’s like the night clung to his skin and followed him into the morning. It feels like he doesn’t even exist. Not without you. 

Eren wakes up a little late, somewhere between morning and afternoon, sunlight leaking through the edges of his curtains in thin, irritating lines. His head feels heavy, not pounding, just dull. The room still smells faintly like smoke and his cologne, a reminder of how little he slept. He stays in bed longer than he should, staring at the wall, replaying the end of the night before whether he wants to or not. Letting the thought of you soak in his mind before he has to go to classes. 

You’re the first thought he has. You’re the second. The third. It’s automatic at this point, like his brain hasn’t caught up to the fact that you’re not his anymore.

He drags himself up eventually, showering more out of habit than motivation. The water helps a little, but not enough. He throws on clean clothes. Dark, simple, effortless. Back in his room, he opens the window just enough to let the cold air push the stale smell out, then sits at his desk and stares at his phone again. Your name is still there. Unmuted. Untouched. No messages. 

He scrolls through old messages he shouldn’t be reading again. It feels like it’s becoming an obsessive habit. It felt like it was to remind himself how it felt to have you actually enjoy talking to him before things went to shit. He notices things he missed before—how your replies got shorter near the end, how he was always the one asking to come over. The realization sits heavy in his chest, sour and slow. It leaves an even deeper weight in his chest. He tells himself he’s not mad at you. He isn’t. If anything, he’s mad at himself for not fixing things sooner. That much was true. 

The hours crawl. He goes to classes mindlessly. He half-studies, flips through a textbook without absorbing anything, taps his pen against the desk until he tosses it aside in frustration. Music plays quietly in the background, low and brooding, but even that feels wrong. Every song sounds like it’s about you if he listens too closely to the lyrics. And he did, for every single song he listened to, he could only think about how it related to you, or your relationship.

By mid-afternoon, reality starts creeping back in. Responsibilities. Distractions. The things he does when he doesn’t want to think. He checks the time more often now, mentally counting down to 5 pm. Dropping stashes for the party gives him something to focus on—something physical, something detached. A task. No feelings required.

He organizes everything methodically, movements precise, controlled. This version of him looks calm from the outside. Functional. Like nothing’s wrong. But every quiet moment between actions, his thoughts drift back to you—wondering what you’re doing, if you’re thinking about him at all, if breaking up feels as heavy for you as it does for him. It probably didn’t. You always had things going on for you, even if you didn’t want them to. Maybe you were in a small meeting with someone from some important corporation, making connections in the business world, actually doing something with yourself.

Right before he leaves to deliver, he pauses in his bedroom doorway. The bed is made now, the room cleaner than it was the night before, but it still feels empty in a way he can’t fix. Maybe it was missing you. Your presence, some sort of hair tie or piece of clothing of yours on the floor, your scent on his sheets. He exhales slowly, steadying himself, slipping back into that familiar emotional armor.

By the time the clock edges closer to 5, Eren is already gone, out the door, bag over his shoulder, jaw set. He tells himself tonight is just business. Just noise. Just a way to stay busy.

But under all of it, the yearning hasn’t gone anywhere.

It’s just waiting to pry up on him, and eventually kill him.

By the time Eren gets to the house, it’s already alive in that half-formed way—music low but insistent, lights on in rooms they don’t need to be, people drifting in and out like they belong there already. It wasn't quite crowded. There’s already students making out against the walls, guys clearly flirting with girls when their only intention is to have a good fuck tonight before acting like they don’t exist. The usual. He slips inside without announcing himself, moving straight to the kitchen where the host said he’d be waiting.

The exchange is quick. Businesslike. Eren drops the stash onto the counter, unzips the bag just enough to show what’s there. The host checks it with a practiced glance, nods once, satisfied. No drama. No questions. He was a regular anyway.

Cash follows—neatly folded bills pressed into Eren’s palm. A few hundred, easy. Clean. Fair. Eren counts it out of habit, not because he doubts it, then tucks it away in his pocket. Done. He should leave now. That’s the rule. He didn’t care to stay anyway, and the host knew that.

He’s turning toward the door when the host’s phone rings.

“Fuck—yeah, yeah, hold on,” the guy mutters, pulling it from his pocket. He answers without thinking, leaning back against the counter. “Hey—no, the party’s still on. You good?”

Eren doesn’t pay attention at first. He shrugs his hoodie higher, eyes already scanning for the exit.

Then the host laughs softly. “Yeah, I know. I just needed to check—since you’re the only one who actually knows how to handle her. That girl does anything but give a break for herself.”

Her.

Eren slows.

The host turns slightly away, lowering his voice, distracted. “No, not like that. She’s just—yeah, she sounded weird earlier. I think she was busy. I mean I dunno, she said she has some important meeting with some business figure. She always does, I swear. I figured I’d call, make sure she’s still coming. Or at least okay?”

Eren stops completely now, heart giving a sharp, unwelcome kick.

He knows. He just knows.

Business meeting? Busy?

Yeah, fuck no. 

“Yeah,” the host continues, rubbing a hand over his face. “I know it’s been a week since she started acting like this. That’s why I’m calling.”

A pause. The music thumps faintly through the walls, distant laughter rising somewhere down the hall.

Eren stands there, half in shadow, listening to someone else talk about you like it’s nothing. Like you’re just another name on a guest list. Like the past week didn’t rip something open in his chest and refuse to close.

The host sighs into the phone. “Okay. Yeah. Tell her she doesn’t have to come if it’s too much. I just didn’t want her hearing about it from someone else. And if she does come, tell her to come see me first."

Another pause.

“Yeah. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

No fucking way. You were going to parties now? You never did that. He remembered it all, the conversations you guys had, late at night, about how you experienced high school parties, hated them, and never went again. And truly, you didn’t. But now you were? Again–barely a week after you guys broke up? Were you being petty?

You were breaking his heart. 

He hangs up, slipping the phone back into his pocket like the conversation didn’t just rearrange Eren’s entire night.

Eren forces himself to breathe. Keeps his face blank. Keeps control. He nods once at the host, mutters something that sounds like a goodbye, and finally walks out the door with the money still warm in his pocket.

But the thought won’t leave him.

You’re being talked about. Considered. Protected—by someone who isn’t him.

And for the first time all day, the distraction he’d been counting on feels like it’s doing the opposite.

Eren doesn’t go straight back to his dorm.

He walks. Longer than he needs to. He walks slowly and differently, unlike the way he used to. His confident, egotistical stride is replaced with a slow, exhausted mood. He lets the cool air bite at his face, lets the weight of the cash in his pocket remind him he did what he was supposed to do. It was easy, it was typical. He’s done this dozens of times. But his head is loud again—too loud—and all he can hear is your name, the way it sat in the host’s mouth like something casual. Like you weren’t his once. Like you still fucking weren’t. 

By the time he gets home, the decision’s already been made.

He drops the money on his desk, barely looks at it. Changes his shirt, then changes it again. He wanted to look a little more put together. Runs a hand through his hair, exhales sharply, stares at himself in the mirror like he’s daring his reflection to stop him. He tells himself he’s just going to see if you’re okay. That’s it. Nothing else. 

It’s a lie, and he knows it.

He wants to know if you’re fucking other people. 

When he gets back to the house, the party is in full swing. Lights low, music loud, bodies everywhere. There were definitely students fucking in the bathroom or in the empty bedrooms. It takes him a minute too long to find you. His body is constantly being bumped into by flirty girls who were too drunk to walk straight. He ran into a group of weirdos that kept screaming about some musical. He practically found everyone else but you.

And then he finally did.  

You’re standing near the edge of the living room with a small group of girls, laughing at something one of them says. You’re having casual conversation, you’re the usual you. Like you weren’t affected in the slightest by the breakup. You were expressive, smiling brightly, laughing melodically. You look unreal. Low-waisted baggy jeans slung perfectly on your hips, casual and so fucking dangerous at the same time, paired with a top that makes his brain short-circuit. Fuck. Low-cut, revealing the way your chest sat naturally without telling too much. Like a secret. 

Backless. Bare skin catching the light every time you move. Your skin was fucking flawless, perfect in his eyes. You were practically glowing. You look confident. Easy. Like the past week hasn’t been eating you alive the way it’s been eating him.

His chest tightens. And so do his pants. Just a little. 

Thank God you’re not talking to some guy. The relief hits him fast and irrational, like he’s been holding his breath without realizing it. Still, jealousy curls low in his stomach anyway, because you’re glowing, and everyone can see it. He even notices a guy pointing at you, asking his friend if he should ask for your number. 

What a fucking joke. Not on his watch.

He hovers for a second. Watches you laugh. Watches the way your shoulders move when you talk, the way your head tips back just slightly. He hates how badly he wants you to notice him. Hates how badly he wants to interrupt.

And eventually, he can’t stand it anymore.

He moves closer, slipping through the crowd until he’s just behind you. You don’t notice him at first. When you finally do—when you turn and your eyes land on him—his stomach flips hard. And so does yours. Your expression shifts, surprise flickering there for half a second.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, almost lost under the music. It was a casual tone, like you didn't throw a shoe at him full force a week ago while screaming about how done you were with him.

You swallow. Yeah, he’s your ex boyfriend, yes he didn’t treat you right. But did that take away from how attractive he was? Not really. He towered over you without even trying, his deep voice carrying a hint of neediness, his green eyes staring down into your own. 

He looks…off. Not sloppy. Not drunk. Definitely not uglier. Just restless. Hands shoved into his pockets like he doesn’t trust them. Jaw tight, eyes fixed on you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he looks away. There’s something almost pathetic about the way he stands there, like he doesn’t know where he’s allowed to be anymore.

“Can I talk to you?” he asks, and there it is—the edge in his voice. Whiny, barely held together. Not demanding. Just wanting. “Just for a minute.”

You don’t respond for a second, still stunned at the fact you saw him here tonight. The conversation between you and your girls quieted as they all watched intently. They knew you guys had just broken up. Did they know why? No. It’s not like they needed to anyway. 

He glances at the girls, then back at you, softer now. “Please.”

It’s not smooth. It’s not cool. It’s fucking pathetic. It’s desperate. 

It’s Eren, a week after losing you, standing in a crowded room like you’re the only person in it and he needs you to say yes so badly. You glance at your girls who glance back at you with shocked, but encouraging expressions. You sigh, your exhale expressing how exhausted you knew were about to be from this conversation. You turn back to him. 

He doesn’t even give you time to respond.

The second you nod—barely, not even fully—his hand is on yours, fingers closing like it’s instinct, like muscle memory never got the memo that he’s not allowed to touch you anymore. It’s firm, warm, familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop. Possessive without meaning to be. Like you’re still his and he’s terrified someone’s about to take you away. You knew in his head, he still thought you were his. Part of you felt the same way, even though you didn’t want to. 

“Come on,” he says, already pulling you with him.

He doesn’t look back to see if you’re following. He knows you are. You let his hand pull you. The feeling was familiar. 

The house feels louder as he moves through it, music thudding through walls, bodies brushing past, lights flickering too bright and too dark all at once. His grip tightens every time someone gets too close to you. His thumb presses into the inside of your wrist like he’s grounding himself. Like if he lets go, you’ll vanish. Good thing part of you didn’t want to. 

The bedroom he finds is empty, door cracked open like it’s been waiting.

He pushes it shut behind you without slamming it, but the click of the lock is loud in the sudden quiet. The room is dim, lit only by a lamp in the corner and the glow bleeding in from the hallway. It smells faintly like someone else’s perfume and alcohol—but mostly like him, because he’s close now. Too close.

He lets go of your hand only to turn and face you, and for half a second he just stares.

Really looks at you.

His eyes drag over you like he’s not trying to be obvious and failing miserably. The low waist of your jeans. Bare skin. Your back. Your chest. Christ, he could barely control his storm of thoughts. He didn’t know if he wanted to yell at you, cry for you, or fuck you raw and deep right here. It was the same bare skin he left marks on just weeks ago. Biting, kissing, hot, long drags of his tongue were just right there. Right in front of him–the same back he pressed down on, just to get the right angle whenever you were on your knees, bent over in front of him on his bed. The same chest he watched naked, bouncing on him. The same chest that fit in his hands just right. 

His jaw tightens hard, like it physically hurts to look at you. Especially knowing your skin was devoid of his marks. He exhales through his nose, sharp and controlled, but there’s nothing calm about him.

“What the fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than you. Then, quieter, “You look—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head like that’s not why he dragged you in here. It wasn’t. Not really, anyway. 

He steps closer anyway. Not touching. Not yet. Just close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, smell that familiar cologne clinging to his hoodie. His voice drops, loses that edge he uses on everyone else.

And you look up at him, a slither of nervousness deep in your chest. 

“I heard you might come,” he says, too fast. “I wasn’t even supposed to be here anymore. I went home. I tried not to—” He stops, jaw flexing, frustration flashing across his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

There it is. The need.

Your eyes widened at his tone. You were expecting a yell, some sort of demand from him, but all that left his lips was a desperate, yearning question that was barely above a whisper. 

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once like a caged animal before stopping right in front of you again. His shoulders are tense, posture still confident, still Eren—but his eyes give him away. Searching. Hungry. A little wrecked. Actually, more than wrecked. 

“It’s been a week,” he says, voice low, almost accusing, but not angry. Hurt. “A whole fucking week and you didn’t say anything. Not a call. Not a text. I don’t know what you’re thinking anymore. I waited for a text from you, or a call. Just– anything, Y/N.”

He leans in just slightly, to get a better look at you. To see you. To indulge in the smell of you for however long this would last. And before he can hold himself back, he lets all of it spill. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a week straight and then he steps in closer, slow and deliberate, until there’s barely any air left between you. Not touching. Not yet, at least. Just close enough that your skin feels tight with awareness, like the moment before lightning hits.

“Answer me,” he says quietly. Not loud. Not sharp. But there’s weight in it—like a hand at your lower back that hasn’t landed yet. It was honestly about to. He was demanding something from you, but not in the way he always had before. No, he’s desperate. He’s wanting it. “Are you fucking around now?”

Fucking around? For a brief second, you couldn’t believe he was thinking such things but then you remembered. Your lab partner opening the door for him at your dorm yesterday. You being here, at this party. You swallowed, your brows slightly furrowing as you took in his question. His eyes don’t leave yours. They burn, dark and glossy, like he’s been awake too long, thinking too hard. The bass from the party thuds through the walls, low and rhythmic, syncing with the pulse in your throat.

“Because I saw that guy open your door,” he continues, voice dropping further, rougher. “And it’s been stuck in my head ever since. Him standing there like he belongs. Like I don’t.” His jaw tightens. “So don’t lie to me.” 

“Don’t tell me you’re fucking around with that guy, who I know doesn’t, and could never make you feel half as good as I did.” 

He leans down just enough that his breath ghosts your cheek, warm and steady, smelling like cologne and something restless underneath. The heat of his breath burns you. The proximity feels like it’s killing you. 

“You don’t just get over me in a week,” he says, half demand, half plea. “I know you better than that.”

Of course he did. You wouldn’t get over him in a week. You’ve been drowning yourself in assignments, homework, meetings, doing shit for yourself all in hopes it would distract you from the thought of him. Doing anything that would completely occupy your time and mind. Because if you had taken your time doing anything that let you think on your own for a second, you’d text. You’d call. 

His hand lifts—slow, controlled—and this time it does touch you. Fingers settling at your hip like it’s instinct, like his body decided before his brain could stop it. It’s not rough. It’s sure. Claiming without squeezing. And you let it happen. You felt your chest tighten, your heart pace a little faster. Suddenly the room felt way hotter despite the fact you had most of your front and your back exposed. Suddenly, a gentle heat coiled in your gut. “Fuck, get yourself together, Y/N. This is Eren. Eren Yeager. The same, toxic bitch you’ve been with. Come on, come on…” you thought, trying to convince yourself to argue. But then his words cut through your train of thought.

“I’ve been fucking losing it,” he admits, voice low, honest in a way that hurts. His words make your breath catch. “I wake up thinking about you. I go to sleep thinking about you. Every time my phone lights up, I think it’s you—even when I know it won’t be.”

His thumb presses in slightly, grounding, possessive, feeling your smooth skin. 

“And then I see you tonight,” he murmurs, eyes dragging down and back up like it’s torture. But at the same time, like you completely belonged to him. And you did. Even if you were trying your best to deny it. “Wearing that. Acting fine. And I don’t know if you’re trying to drive me insane on purpose or if you just don’t realize what you do to me.”

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, control cracking but not breaking.

“Tell me you don’t think about me,” he demands softly. “Tell me you don’t miss how I touch you. How I know you. How I fucking love you, Y/N.” His grip firms just a fraction. “Because I know no one else does. Not like I do. Nobody ever will,”

The room feels too small now. Like everything else has receded—music, voices, time—until it’s just this moment, stretched tight as a wire.

“I’m trying to give you space,” he says, quieter, almost reverent. “But you’re standing right in front of me, and I’m done pretending I don’t want you back. Because I do. I fucking want you, Y/N. I need you, I need you like I need air to breathe, I can’t live comfortably with myself if you’re not going to be with me.”

His voice drops to something intimate, dangerous. Like it always did. 

“So if there’s someone else,” he says, slow and deliberate, “say it. Look at me in my eyes and say it.”

A beat.

“But if there isn’t,” he continues, eyes darkening, conviction settling in, “then stop running from me.”

His thumb traces a subtle line along your hip, enough to promise everything without saying it.

“Because I’m still yours,” he says. “And you’re still mine.”

Jesus christ. 

You swallowed deeply, trying your best to not give in. You’d be honest, of course. If you lied, he’d figure out and you didn’t want that mess for yourself. You took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, leaning against the wall as you avoided his gaze. 

“Well, for starters, I’m not fucking around.” you asserted. Though, you wouldn’t lie, the idea did come to mind. Just to get over him. 

The words hit him harder than he expects.

For a split second, his body reacts before his mind does—his grip loosens just enough to betray him, like something tight in his chest finally cracked. Relief floods through him fast and hot, almost dizzying, chasing the jealousy and bitterness that had been coiled inside him all night. It’s not clean relief, though. It’s sharp. Greedy. The kind that makes his pulse spike instead of settle.

You’re not fucking around.

The thought anchors itself in him immediately, possessive and dangerous, sinking deep. His shoulders drop a fraction, but his stance doesn’t soften. If anything, he steps in closer without realizing it, crowding the space like the answer gave him permission to exist here again. Like it confirmed something he’d already decided was true.

At the same time, guilt gnaws at him—because he knows he doesn’t deserve that answer. Not after the way things ended.

“The guy that opened the door at my dorm, I’m not fucking around with him either. He was my lab partner.” you confirmed. The same sense of relief washed over him, and he even told himself: 

“Good. Now I know I don’t have to fuck anyone’s face up.” 

“There’s nobody else,” you finally added. Yet, you continued, “but I’m sick of you pulling this shit on me. I’m not yours anymore, Eren. And you sure as hell aren’t mine. You never were to begin with, considering how you entertained just about anyone with a pussy.” you finally got ahold of your ground, standing up a little straighter, as if telling him to back off.  

Your words hit him like a shove to the chest.

For a moment, he just stares at you, jaw tight, breath slow and controlled like he’s forcing himself not to react the wrong way. For once, you were actually shocked that he was controlling himself. Typically, he’d be yelling without a second guess. Then he steps forward again—closing the distance you tried to reclaim—one hand bracing against the wall beside your head. Not trapping you. Not touching you. Just reminding you how easily he could. Like your little effort to reclaim yourself was nothing to him. 

Well, fuck. 

“Don’t do that,” he says quietly. “Don’t rewrite it like I was the only one fucking it up.”

His voice isn’t angry. It’s low. Earnest. Strained. The kind of calm that comes from saying something he’s been holding back for too long. And for a second, it strikes you. 

“You were hot and cold with me,” he continues, eyes locked on yours. “You wanted me when it was convenient. When you had time. When you felt like it.” His jaw clenches. “And then you’d disappear. Classes. Studying. Shutting me out. Acting like I was asking for too much just for wanting you.”

He exhales, forehead dipping closer to yours, frustration bleeding into honesty.

“You didn’t care when you were busy,” he says, quieter now. “But the second you weren’t—you cared too much. Wanted all of me at once. Needed reassurance, attention, everything.” His eyes soften just a fraction. “And I gave it to you. Every time.”

A beat.

That was true. That was very true, and you knew it. You couldn’t deny that you prioritized practically anything that would give you another opportunity to make yourself a golden icon at this damned, competitive university. You couldn’t argue with that at all. 

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t fuck up,” he adds immediately, voice rougher. “I did. I should’ve shut down the flirting. I should’ve made it clear I was taken.” His hand flexes against the wall. “I liked being wanted. And I hate that about myself.”

He looks at you like the admission costs him pride, but he didn’t care about pride anymore. He needed you back. 

“But I never stopped wanting you,” he says, stepping closer still, voice dropping into something intimate and dangerous. “I just didn’t know how to handle the way you’d pull me in and push me away in the same breath.”

His free hand lifts slowly this time, deliberate, fingers brushing your waist—light, testing, like he’s asking without asking. The touch sends heat straight up your spine, and you do nothing to stop it. You do absolutely nothing to tell him to fuck off. In fact, your body moves on its own, leaning in just an inch to his touch. You hoped he wouldn’t notice that. He did. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “For making you feel replaceable. For not protecting what we had.” His thumb presses in just slightly. “You weren’t. Shit, Y/N you never could be.”

He leans in, mouth close to your ear now, breath warm.

“But don’t stand there and tell me you didn’t feel this too,” he says softly. “Don’t pretend you didn’t want me just as badly when it suited you. That you still do.”

His voice drops, controlled but heavy with need.

“I know I’m being selfish,” he admits. “I know I don’t get to have you anymore.” His fingers tighten just a little, grounding. “But I’m still here. Still wanting you. Still losing my mind over you…” his hand drifts just ever so slightly up your waist, touching at your bare skin.

He pulls back just enough to look at you again, eyes dark, intense, unwavering.

“So yeah,” he says quietly, dominantly, “maybe we both fucked it up.”

A pause.

“But don’t tell me I never had you,” he finishes.

“Because you’re standing right here—and I can feel how hard it is for you not to give in.”

The room feels to warm.

Too close.

Eren fucks up your relationship, and is now desperately trying to get you back.

Warnings: Smut (sort of), foul language, mentions of substance use.

A/N: This is my first work on Tumblr, I mainly write on Wattpad, so... the formatting and organization is a little new to me. Support is greatly appreciated. Please enjoy! :D

Love, Still.

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"Oh, just fuck off!" You yelled, grabbing the closest thing you could find and throwing it square at your boyfriend, hearing the object collide against his body with a brief thunk, “I’m fucking sick of you, you know that?! I’m fucking done!” you screamed, your voice ripping through the heated air of your boyfriend’s apartment, slamming against the walls and ringing in his ears. You two had been arguing the last hour after you saw a text message from some girl, telling him he looked good today. If you believed this wasn’t enough to justify throwing something at him, you should’ve seen yourself when you read through the messages entirely. Flirty enough to entertain, but not enough to be considered completely cheating on you. 

And there was no doubt about it, anyone nearby within this building could definitely hear you screaming your head off at him. Did you care? Not right now. And probably not ever. You weren’t going to regret a single thing you were going to say or do tonight. You were sick of it, you were sick of all of it. You knew something was up the second he started hanging around that girl, yet you blindly gave him the benefit of the doubt.

“It’s not even anything serious! I didn’t know how to act, don’t blame me–” 

Here we went, with another excuse. The same excuse he always gave you. You didn’t even want to argue anymore. You didn’t wanna hear his voice, his pathetic excuses, his bullshit lies flossing right through his teeth. 

“Shut the fuck up. Like, actually, please just shut the fuck up."

"We’re done. I’m so done,” you sighed.

You weren’t yelling anymore. Your voice couldn’t have been more disappointed, more tired, the tone blasé and mundane. He wasn’t going to give you anything meaningful. He never made you feel meaningful. He wasn’t going to ever make you feel meaningful. It was over. 

You felt like your lifespan was being cut by a year each time he made an excuse, the life draining from your soul. He was just a straight up whore, and he acted so proud of it until you confronted him, until you were right in front of his goddamn eyes. But you were done making yourself look dumb. This entire relationship was worth nothing anyway, you never got anything out of it. It was full of inconsistency, toxicity, and bullshit. Just straight bullshit.

Eren had always been doing anything but being a decent boyfriend. Sure, the sex was always mind blowing (which was the only consistent thing he gave you), he could be caring sometimes and he was a decent person, (though, rarely), but the one thing that fucking bothered you? It was that he wouldn’t stop messing around with other people, even if he claims they’re the one that started it, that kept flirting with him, and he just “didn’t know how to respond without being mean”. He would let them think they had a chance, he’d entertain them, just to feed his ego, and he’d never just directly tell them no. Especially Mikasa. Yet, the second a man even glanced at you, suddenly he just had to start something. He always had to start something. 

“Yeah?” he scoffed in response to your yell. 

He didn’t believe you in the slightest. 

Because you always had these arguments. You were always supposedly done with him, until he’d find you, sweet talk you, fuck your brains out, and get you back. In his mind, you belonged to him, through and through. Each argument was just you lashing out at meaningless behavior, and it would be solved with a good fuck and some reassurance. That’s how it went. That’s how it’s always been. For the past year you’ve been doing this with him. 

“I fucking mean it, Eren!” you snatched your bag from his counter, “We’re done, we’re so fucking done!” you yelled, tossing your bag over your shoulder as you stormed to the exit of his dorm room. Your face was heated in pure anger, you couldn’t even think straight at all. All you could think about was getting out of here before you seriously did something you’d probably end up regretting. You didn’t have anymore to say, and you definitely didn’t want to even see him right now. Or maybe even ever again. Your breathing was rough, heavy, uneven, and your body felt like it was a literal fire from how heated you were. Your hands shook with anger as they tightly grasped the strap of your bag, making your way to where your shoes were at the door.

“Don’t call me, don’t text me, don’t even fucking look at me!” you screamed, your voice shredding through the cool air of his dorm. 

“There’s no way you fucking mean that.” Eren responded, his voice coming through deeply, almost as if he was asserting that there was no way you were actually breaking up with him right now. His voice had a tinge of a chuckle, as if you were making some joke about leaving him. But you were dead serious, you were done with his bullshit for good, and if he ever wanted to make it up to you? 

Well, you didn’t exactly know. For now, you were just focused on not seeing the piece of shit. 

You didn’t even give him a response, giving him the dirtiest look you could’ve possibly formed, your brows knitted, eyes and lips pursed and twisted in pure disgust, before slamming his door shut, the walls shaking, waves from the loud volume hitting against his skin, leaving his dorm room and storming off in the empty, plain hallway, grumbling under your breath about how much of an attention whore he was. Leaving him alone in his dorm room. Now, at first, he truly didn’t believe you. Because you always did this, and in the end, you couldn’t resist him. Because you were his, weren’t you? You were, even if you didn’t know it or believe it in the moment, you always were. 

“Hey!” he yelled as you walked out the door, trying to catch your attention as the feeling of you leaving for good began to actually dawn on him. 

“You fucking love me!” he stated, his voice an angry, desperate tone. A statement. Like the words were supposed to cuff you with him for life. 

“I fucking love you, Y/N!” he continued with a furious, frustrated yell, stepping up towards the door with rough footsteps, his heavy voice slamming against the walls, yet to no avail, you slammed his door anyways, not even considering his words in the slightest. His voice was easily drowned out by the loud volume of your thoughts, attacking your head with no restraint.

Well? 

Days passed, and you never responded to any of his texts. He stopped entertaining Mikasa for the last few days, too focused on wondering what you were doing, where the fuck you were, who you were talking to. He hated not knowing a single thing about what you were doing. And now that you two were broken up, he couldn’t have been more devastated, the thought of losing you for good never crossed his mind considering how you always slipped back into his arms after a few days. You always gave in. Sometimes within the same night, sometimes the next morning, sometimes the next few days. But it’s been nearly a week now, and you hadn’t even read his messages. And he hasn’t even seen you around yet. 

What could you possibly be doing that you weren’t even around on campus? You two took completely different programs in university and didn’t have any classes together, sure, but he always saw you somewhere. Whether you were studying in a library or ordering something at a cafe, he knew everywhere you usually went. And you were nowhere to be found now. It was like your existence was erased from his life. And that terrified him more than he could ever know. 

Over the week, he was around his friends, smoking blunts, sniffing up drugs, even Mikasa, who had approached and attempted the usual flirting, but he was so out of it. Suddenly, he didn’t care for getting intoxicated all of those nights anymore. He didn’t entertain it for once, he just brushed her off, rubbing his neck before leaving entirely with a grumbled, “Not feelin’ it tonight. I’ll see you guys later”. He didn’t feel anything anymore whenever she complimented how his hair looked, how nice his voice was whenever he spoke. It wasn’t the same. It never was the same. He could only feel this crippling shame prickling up his neck every single time she complimented him, remembering how he used to act whenever she would compliment while you were right there in front of him, completely neglected. Eventually, he brought himself to tell her the truth, straight up. He met up with her. Told her that he liked the attention, that he didn’t really give a shit about her, that anything they talked about, he meant emptily. 

In return, he got the usual thing he had gotten before. Screams, yells, cries, curses thrown at him. What was new? He knew he was shitty. Like he gave a fuck about that, ever. 

Each night, he went to sleep, missing the way you drooled on his chest and practically used him as a body pillow. He missed waking up to texts from you, as you had always woken up earlier than he did. He missed the comfort of you, the softness and warmth of your skin, the sound of your laugh. 

He didn’t know why he ever entertained anyone else. 

He didn’t know why he ever liked the attention from anyone else when it only mattered from you. 

Once the one week mark had hit, he decided to take things into his own hands and actually go to your dorm. Of course, not without getting you things. He went out of his way to get you a whole gift basket to make up for it all. He went to Victoria’s Secret first, spending nearly two hours trying to figure out how to navigate his way out of the granny panties to the pretty lingerie you both liked seeing yourself in. He began with picking out a handful of thongs for you, and then considered an entire lingerie set. Yeah, a set. He’d work his way up to deserving you for once, have you wear the lingerie as a gift once he proved himself, and then, he’d unwrap you and earn you. All of you. Just the thought had him eager to find the perfect set to see you in. 

Struggling to find where they even were, an employee approached him with a kind smile. “Hello, sir. Is there anything you need assistance with?” she asked, clasping her hands together and offering him the typical kind, service smiling expression as she tilted her head subtly. 

“Uh–... yeah,” he stammered, glancing at his hands full of the underwear he wanted to be able to see you in. “I’m looking for the things.” he stated simply, thinking she’d understand exactly what he meant based off of his words. 

The poor employee’s breathing paused for a moment, waiting for more context. But that was all he was giving her to work with. “...Alright, would you care to be a little more descriptive in what exactly you’re looking for?” she asked. 

He cleared his throat nervously, “I’m looking for… my… I’m looking for a thing. The things that you wear… for when you do stuff. The sets.” he managed to choke out, embarrassed from mentioning what exactly he was looking for to the lady. He had almost called you his girlfriend. Well, you still were. You just didn’t know it yet.

Thankfully, the employee got the hint from his words, a lightbulb flickering in her head. “Ah, the lingerie sets, right? Follow me, we just got these collections in,” she smiled, turning and walking off toward the lingerie sets that the store sold. He followed, an embarrassing heat crippling up his neck from revealing what he wanted to see you in, even if it was most likely normal for that employee to hear such things. Once they reached the lingerie collections, his eyes instantly caught onto a full set. And within a blink, he knew that was the one he wanted to see you in. Or, the one he wanted to take off of you once he truly earned you. Fuck, that would be such a gift. 

“So, we just recently got the–” 

“That one.” Eren’s dominating voice quickly cut through any word or thought the employee was going to offer. He was pointing at a set on a full mannequin, the employee’s head turning to glance wherever he was pointing. 

The outfit was a coordinated black lingerie set with a deliberately structured, sultry aesthetic that included delicate lace with sharp features. The bra was an underwire style, made from sheer black lace that was detailed in a floral pattern. The cups were lightly structured, giving a supportive shape without heavy padding, the lace allowing subtle transparency. Below the bra was a matching lace garter belt that sat high on the waist, featuring intricate floral lace panels with a striking detail in the front. Thin elastic straps crisscrossed at the waistline, adding a layered, harness effect. From the garter belt hung adjustable straps that connected to stockings made from the same textured, floral lace. They were a smooth, semi-opaque black. 

Overall, in simple words, the outfit was fucking sexy. 

“Well, this guy is definitely a freak.” the employee thought in her head before smiling brightly. “This one? Of course, sir. What size is the lucky girl?” she asked, stepping toward the mannequin. 

He told the woman your size, she handed him the proper set, and he went on his way after spending probably a few hundred on just Victoria’s Secret for you. Afterward, he stopped by a Target to grab you other things, snacks, hair ties, the things you liked. After organizing and decorating a basket, he made his way to your dorm room. For your typical schedule, right now, you’d be there anyway. He was hoping you were there. God, he really wanted you to be there. Really wanted to apologize, really wanted to make things right, wanted to change, wanted to feel you. 

He knew he didn’t deserve it but fuck, he’d try his hardest. 

He approached your dorm room, taking a deep breath before knocking. There was a brief moment of silence before he heard footsteps. A little heavier than usual. Was someone else there? 

The door opened and he opened his mouth to say your name, but his eyes met another guy’s. Before he could even speak, his throat closed up, and the first thing that came to mind was: 

“I’m going to fuck this bitch up.” 

“Hey, Y/N. Come here,” the man called for you. What the fuck was he doing at your dorm? In your room? You never did that. You never had people over. Who the fuck was this? Eren’s hands tightened on the gift basket, nearly breaking the undurable material. He took a deep breath, satiating himself in the vision of beating the shit out of whoever this was without truly reacting. 

“Who is it?” You asked, standing up from your bed and heading over to your door. The second you saw those familiar, large, tatted hands, furious with veins practically bulging from his knuckles, your throat closed up. You paused for a moment, knowing how it looked to Eren now that you realized it. How it seemed. Not like you cared. Well, you did. A little… 

You swallowed, approaching the door as your friend went back inside to work on the rest of your guys’ lab report, looking up at Eren. You glanced back at your friend who went back to typing on his laptop before leaving your dorm, stepping outside into the hallway, closing the door to ensure he wouldn’t hear your conversation. 

“What do you want?” you asked, looking at Eren with disdain. That is, until you noticed the gift basket trembling in his hands. 

He could barely speak. You thought he was surely going to blow up on you. He would yell, throw the gifts to the floor, do something. But instead, he could only ask–

“Are you serious, Y/N?” he asked. His voice was devoid of anger. In fact, it sounded more broken than anything. 

“Who is he?” he continued. 

“That’s none of your business Eren, didn’t I tell you I was done with you?” you asked, pressing your fingertips to your temples in frustration, looking away from him. 

“I’m not done with you.” he asserted, looking down into your eyes, his own eyes now beginning to fume. “You’re seriously fucking bring a guy over to your room barely a week after we fucking broke up? The fuck is wrong with you?” he asked. 

The truth was, you had an important lab report to submit by tonight, and this “guy” was your assigned lab partner. Did Eren have to know that? No. 

“Oh, so when I bring a guy over even after we break up, the world fucking explodes, but when you entertain another girl while we’re together for months, it’s daisies and rainbows and I’m overreacting?” you asked, sharply retorting. 

Eren swallowed, biting back his tongue. He knew that you were right, that he shouldn’t be reacting this way. But fuck, only a week without you was killing him. And he didn’t know what he’d do if it would be like this for life. He wanted you back. He needed you back. 

“Y/N, I–” he began, but he choked on his words, unable to properly express himself. “Listen–” 

“No. I told you I’m done with you.” you cut him off before he was able to spit out an excuse at you. 

Unprepared and unable to express himself, he merely handed you the gift basket. “Okay, just call or text me if you ever want to.” he mumbled, his brows gently furrowing at the frustration of being unable to express himself. You took the gift basket with a small sense of guilt in the back of your head, but ultimately, you just went back inside your dorm and left it on your table before getting back to work, and while he walked back toward his own dorm. 

On the walk back to his own dorm room, his hands were in his pockets, and he could only think of how badly he had fucked up. He should’ve treated you better, should’ve been there, should’ve talked to you more, should’ve made you feel worth it. But he didn’t, and now his actions were coming back to bite him in the ass. Hard. 

Once he made it back to his dorm, the door shut behind him, and he placed a hand on the edge of a counter, grasping tightly, veins bulging through his hands and his tattooed forearms, while his other hand ran frustratingly through his hair, “Fuck,” he cursed beneath his breath, his breathing growing heavier by the second.

“I fucking love you, Y/N. I fucking love you, I love you,” he whined desperately under his breath, talking to himself, alone in his dorm, his eyes forcing shut as his throat began to close from the emotion he felt, his deep voice growing more desperate for the feel of you, of you being there, of hearing you. He tried his best to restrain his thoughts, but he could practically see you beneath his eyes, just as clearly as he saw you declining his apology earlier. 

He leaned further forward, both elbows on the counter now as both hands ran through his long, brown hair, tugging roughly at his strands before he growled in anger. “Fuck!” he yelled angrily, remembering the sight of that twink’s face at your door, opening your door for you in curiosity. The fuck? What fucking rigged game was this? You had to be kidding him.

What, so now that you two were broken up, you were fucking around with a guy who looked like he’d cum to a fucking chair if it had enough curvature? 

Eren felt like smashing that guy's face in. Just the look of his face, the way his features were distributed, the way he was so fucking puny. His nerdy fucking voice disturbing his ears, back from when he called you over to the door. He was some absolute punk. Some fucking nerd who couldn't make you feel half as good as Eren did. He couldn't believe it.

“Y/N, you’ll take me back… swear to God, you’re going to fucking take me back,” he grumbled beneath his breath, convincing himself more than anyone else that you really would take him back once he proved himself. He stood up, pushing himself off the counter, before heading to his room to smoke, and to think.