#dis-moi

The car slows, turns onto a narrower road, gravel crunching under the tyres, and you realise you don't know where you are, don't recognise anything except the dense green and the heat.

He drives like he does everything else, with total confidence, total control, one hand on the wheel and one on your thigh and his eyes always moving, always checking, always hunting for threats that exist only in his head.

"Where are we going?" you ask, and your voice sounds small, doll-like, the way he likes it, the way he encourages with his praise and his gifts and his hands.

"Surprise," he says, and he smiles, that sharp smile that doesn't reach his eyes, that means he's planned something, decided something, without consulting you because consultation implies equality and Eren doesn't do equality, Eren does whatever he thinks is best and trusts you'll thank him for it afterwards, curled against his chest, full and dripping with his cum.

The road opens up suddenly, a clearing, and you see it, a cabin, rustic and expensive and deliberately isolated. There's a lake behind it, you can see it through the trees, the water still and dark and waiting, and you think of the songs he plays for you, Presley and Isaak, the ones about girls who disappear into men's houses and men's lives and men's needs, who drown in love and obsession and the particular violence of being wanted too much, of being wanted completely.

I'm your man and you're my baby, I'm your man and you're my—

"Eren," you say, and his name feels like a prayer and curse in your mouth, like a spell, like the only word you know anymore.

"Mm?" He's already out of the car, coming around to your side, opening your door with the flourish of a man who knows he's giving you something, who expects gratitude, who demands it with every gesture, every gift, every look.

"Why are we here?"

He kneels in the dirt in his designer jeans, his big hands framing your face, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks the way he does, the way that makes you feel like a doll, like a mound of clay under his control, his warm hands moulding you into just the right shape to hold his infatuation.

His eyes are so green in the dappled light, so bright, and you can see the sweat on his upper lip, can smell the heat coming off him, can feel the vibration of his body where it presses against your knees.