#erenyeager

Because we love eren and he loves Bambi 100% , Best scene

⟡ Chapter 3 of PR Only

⟡ wc: 2695

The limo slows to a stop up in front of Sasha’s house. You don’t bother looking at Eren while ashing out the cigarette, before opening the door and walking onto the sidewalk. You’re already sweating again from the sun beating down on your skin, and you don’t even think about giving him his sunglasses back. 

You slam the door shut without a word to him, and you don’t even text Sasha that you’re already here. Your muscles feel tight when you walk, fingers twitching around your phone as you step onto her porch, hiding under the shade with sweat on your forehead. 

The sidewalk feels too quiet without the hum of the limo behind you. Mina would’ve said something stupid right now. Probably something like, “You looked like a washed-up Lana Del Rey” or “you would get yourself into this mess.” 

You stare down at your phone, thumb hovering over her name in your contacts, even though no one else has had that number for years. You just need to say something to her, even if it’s not out loud. Even if it’s just a voicemail she’ll never hear. It’s to her, and that’s what matters. 

You slip down onto Sasha’s porch steps, the wood already hot on the backs of your thighs. Your fingers move like muscle memory while opening your contacts and tapping Mina’s name. It rings three times. Then that same automated voicemail picks up, the one that never changes.

There’s a short pause followed by a beep, but it still takes you a few moments before your voice catches up.  

“Hey, Mina.” You mumble, phone on speaker because no one’s around to listen. “You’re gonna hate me for this, but please don’t be mad.”

You giggle to yourself, as if Mina’s already preparing to hear the worst. Her disappointed face flashes in your mind, even though it’s a memory fading with each passing year. 

“I went to a party last night. One of those stupid ones that Sasha always drags me to. Except… I didn’t mean to talk to him.” You pause, take a deep breath. “Eren, I mean. His name’s Eren. He’s like the lead singer of this band and got cancelled. He just kinda showed up and told me he was gonna keep me.”

Pressing your trembling lips together, you try to even out your breathing. Crying isn’t something that you want to deal with right now. 

“I mean, it’s not like I have anywhere else to go,” you sigh. 

“But anyway, he wants me to be his PR stunt. He took me to brunch today, but everyone hates me. His managers, the rest of his band. And I’m too high to act normal.” You shake your head while running your fingers through your hair. “Everyone thinks I’m his girlfriend? Or a groupie? I’m supposed to look pretty next to him and like… make everyone think he can fall in love with me?”

The sun’s too fucking hot and it’s melting into your skin. The air is hot even in the shade. Your pupils are blown, your mouth is dry, and your jaw won’t stop twitching. Dizziness sinks into your head, shallow breaths coming from your parted lips. 

“I don’t know. He should’ve picked a model or another celebrity.” Your voice lowers when you laugh, “I know you’d be disappointed. But he’s so hot it would make up for it. He’s your type.”

Your thumb rubs along the edge of your phone, staring at her contact name and the picture of you two at fifteen. A selfie you took of each other at the first party you snuck out to. It’s kinda blurry, her eyeliner is smudged, and you’re both trying too hard to act older than you were.

“I miss you.”

You hang up before you can say anything else, before your voice breaks and you end up crying on Sasha’s porch. 

The door creaks open behind you, but you don’t turn around. “I knew I heard your voice,” Sasha says, looking down at you with a smile. 

“Can I have some water?” you ask, voice dry.

It takes you a moment to stand up. The door opens wider and Sasha steps aside without another word. You don’t look at her when you glance and head straight for the couch like usual. 

Now you’re curled up in the corner of the cushion, sweaty legs tucked in with your knees against your chest. Eren’s sunglasses are pushing up on your head. The cold glass of water in your hand leaves condensation on your palm, and the ice clinks every time you shift. You take a few large gulps without breathing, the ice hitting your teeth as the chill drags down into you. The room smells like coconut and weed.

Sasha sounds tired while asking, “what happened?”

You look away from Sasha and at the light peering into the living room window. Your breathing is still heavy from the little high you have left.

“Open up TikTok and scroll for a few minutes,” you press your lips together. “You’ll see.”

Sasha tilts her head and decides that listening to your request is easier than questioning it. 

TikTok opens and it doesn’t take long before clips of you and Eren show up. It’s you stumbling out of the breakfast place with Eren’s hand on your lower back. His sunglasses are sitting crooked on your nose and you can barely hold yourself up. The sound playing in the background is one of his songs. 

Sasha opens the comments and scrolls through them. None of them are nice and she refuses to say them outloud. But she keeps scrolling anyway because someone recorded him approaching you at the party, high out of your fucking mind and sucking on a lollipop. 

Another clip is a different angle of Eren coming up to you at the party, but this time it’s when he leaned down to lick the lollipop you offered. He looks way too hot, but you look fucking insane. The comments include people making fun of you for being high, and calling him unserious for “dating” a nobody.

You glance down at your lap, rolling the cold glass in your fingers. Sasha locks her phone and sets it on the coffee table. 

“So…” you mumble, eyes flicking back up to her, “why didn’t you ever introduce me to the band if you and Connie have been friends forever?”

Sasha lets out a short laugh. “Because every time I tried, you were so fucking high and I didn’t trust you to not say anything insane.”

“Like what?” You ask, raising a brow.

“Like the first time we met and became friends, after we did ketamine in the bathroom, you spent the whole night lying in my arms and talking about the universe.” She laughs to herself, “you kept asking if we were stars together before coming on Earth. And that it was fate for us to meet.” 

“But it was Connie’s party,” you deadpan.

She laughs, “yeah, but I wasn’t going to introduce you like that.”

You try to hide your grin behind your glass. “And you didn’t want to tell me later?” “Later, you barely remembered me. We both crashed at the house and when you woke up, you ran over to me and said you felt some sort of cosmic connection with me. And that I must be your twin flame.”

“I know, I know. You’ve told me before,” you groan, leaning your head back into the cushion. “Some fake hippie shit.”

“And you never seemed to care about who owned the houses or played at shows. You kinda were in your own world most of the time,” she adds.

“Okay, but there was this one DJ who was so hot–”

“Yeah, and you swore he was your soulmate.” “Well, he was so…” you pause while looking away, “hot.”

She rolls her eyes and glances at your shaky hands. “Are you still coming down?”

You nod frantically and take a sip of your water. “Haven’t started yet, but I’ll—”

A sharp knock rattles the door before you can say anything else. It’s heavy and impatient, causing both of you to flinch. 

Sasha sighs, pushing herself off the couch, then mutters  “Who the hell?” She quietly walks toward the door. The knock comes slower this time, deliberate enough to make your breathing falter. 

When she pulls open the door, light spills into the room, framing a silhouette in the doorway. With broad shoulders and distressed hair. You can’t see his face, but you don’t need to. You know exactly who it is.

“She’s still here, right?” Eren’s voice is low. He pauses for a moment before saying, “I need her.”

Your chest tightens while setting your cup on the coffee table. Your feet are already dragging yourself to the door before your brain can catch up. Sasha glances back at you, but doesn’t say anything. 

He lifts his hand, dangling a small black bag on his fingers with a few keychains clinking together. 

“I found your purse,” he says simply, but the words make your pulse jump. 

You never even mentioned that you lost your purse last night. He must’ve noticed and went looking for it at the hotel, even though you were too tired to care. You knew it was gone. You knew your makeup, your ID, and everything else was left somewhere between the green room and the hotel. You just didn’t care enough to go looking.

But he did.

Warmth spreads beneath your ribs, unable to take your eyes off his face as he smiles. With unsteady hands, you reach for your purse before you’re even in front of him, taking it quickly from his grip and pretending you’re calm against the quickening beat of your heart.

Because he remembered something that you forgot about. Something that he shouldn’t have cared about at all.

“Thanks,” you mumble, a small smile forming on your lips as you slide the strap onto your shoulder.

He leans against the doorframe, letting the heat from outside drift into the cool house. He’s still in the same outfit from earlier, except now his hair’s tied up into a messy bun. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his shirt clings to his skin in places, the fabric just starting to stick.

“So…” he starts, focusing his eyes on you. “I want you to come back to my place.”

Sasha doesn’t get the chance to interject before Eren continues. “People need to see you coming into my home. The press will eat that shit up. It would make everyone think we’re actually dating.”

Sasha interjects, “But we haven’t even had lunch yet—”

“I’ll feed her again. I need her.”

The way he says it sounds too personal.

You nod briefly, half smiling at Sasha and mumbling a quiet “thanks” that you can barely gather enough energy for. Sasha just continues to stare at you, tilting her head, unable to form a coherent sentence. 

Because you look fucking ridiculous right now.

His hand closes around yours, catching the faint twitch of your fingers beneath his grip from the molly left in your veins. Sasha mumbles something, but you can barely hear it once he pulls you outside, the heat burning your skin as he walks you toward his car. 

He’s walking a few steps in front of you, hand sweaty against yours as you trail behind him. The door closes gently behind you, but your body is too dehydrated and weak to do anything about leaving. 

“I’ll drive,” he says, less intimidating than before. “Makes it look better if you’re seen in the car with me.”

The sunlight bouncing off a glossy hood blinds you for a second. You squint, then slide Eren’s sunglasses back down from where they’ve been pushed up on your head, settling them over your eyes. It takes a moment before you realize what you’re looking at. A bright red Corvette parked against the curb. 

Your lips part before you can stop yourself. “Of course you’d drive that,” you murmur, rolling your eyes. You cross your arms over your chest, heels clicking against the sidewalk. 

He doesn’t answer right away, just smirks as you approach the car. In one motion, he reaches for the passenger door and pulls it open. The leather interior is dark, the faint scent of weed and cologne slipping out into the afternoon air.

“Get in,” he says, not looking at you while holding it open. 

You hesitate before sliding into the seat, and he shuts it almost immediately after you settle in. The car is still slightly cool from when he left it a few minutes ago. 

It’s comfortable, but you feel out of place. It’s too nice for someone like you. Someone who doesn’t have much to her name, except the reputation you didn’t mean to build. The kind of car that people stare at as it passes by. But for a second, you hate how good this feels. 

You keep your purse on your thighs, fingers tapping softly against the fabric. By the time you look up, he’s already getting in the driver’s side of the car.

“Where do you live?” You ask under your breath as he turns on the car, the air immediately blowing against your skin. 

His phone automatically connects to Bluetooth and some punk song faintly plays from the speakers. He glances over, watching your hands jitter in your lap from the lack of food in your stomach. 

He taps the pedal and the car gets obnoxiously loud. Loud enough to rattle your chest, enough for Sasha’s neighbors to be distraught. The seat vibrates underneath you, rolling through your thighs in a way you don’t want to think about. 

He licks his lips, gaze fixed ahead. “West Hollywood.”

“You make that much money?” You blurt out before thinking. 

He shrugs as he merges onto the freeway. “We’re signed to a major label. They kind of control our image. They think it’s what the fans expect. Like, a rockstar living in a penthouse.”

“A penthouse?” You ask, a little too loud. 

He bites back a laugh. “Yeah. Just really for PR parties and clean interviews. They signed the lease, told me I had to live there, and I’ve been there since. Didn’t really have a choice.”

The car falls silent as you take in his words, looking at him out of the corner of your eye. He doesn’t follow up right away, like maybe he accidentally said too much information. You almost feel bad for him.

You stare out the window, watching the other cars pass by. “Does the rest of the band live with you?”

He shakes his head, knuckles turning white as he tightens his grip on the wheel. “No.”

Before you can say anything, he continues with a low voice. “Jean lives in a high rise in Century City. It’s seen more naked girls than a strip club.”

You hum while nibbling on your bottom lip. You don’t have anything nice to say, like isn’t Jean with Mikasa? But it’s not really your business. His voice is steady and it feels oddly intimate. Like he’s telling you band secrets that he’s never told anyone else. 

“Connie lives in Studio City. Some luxury apartment that he poorly decorated,” he says with a low chuckle, shaking his head like he wants to be disappointed. “Reiner has a house in Beachwood Canyon. Y’know, in Hollywood Hills, but less flashy, more modest than the rest of us.”

The car hums beneath you as he switches lanes, sunlight reflecting on passing traffic. His other hand taps against the gear shift, debating on whether he wants to keep going. 

He continues anyway, “Armin lives in Pasadena. He likes a quiet residential area with trees and shit. Still close enough for practice, but far enough to avoid paparazzi.“

There’s nothing but the road noise for a moment as he drums his fingers against the wheel. His eyes stay on the freeway, but he’s somewhere else entirely. 

He breathes out, almost too quietly to hear, “Mine’s the only one that doesn’t feel like a home.”

tags: @timotheeishot676 @faerie-soirxx

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eren x female reader

Angst to fluff ( reader and Eren are twin flame besties ) or were

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

" You've been ignoring Eren," Mikasa spoke with a punch to her bag.

You shot Mikasa a quick glance as you kicked the brown bag hard. Your gaze narrowing more on your stiff opponent as the image of your green eyed best friend appeared in your mind.

" I'll take your silence as a yes," Mikasa spoke, more like a statement than question. " why?"

" I dont want to talk about it," you dismissed with another hard kick to the punching bag.

Mikasa pulled herself out from her stance. Her eyes pinned on you. " Well we're going to. What happened between you two the night before the retake?"

Kick,

" Drop it Mika," you hissed.

Kick,

" I thought you told me it was mutual—"

" Drop it."

It was silent in the gym room. Your breaths laboured as you stared at your best friend. There was nothing you hated more than arguing with Mikasa—any of your friends really, but especially Mikasa. It left this twisting feeling inside of you that reminded you of the day you lost your home. You had bitterly argued with your older sister, leaving the house on a bad note to meet with your friends, and the next time you saw her, she was crushed under your home. Along with your mother, and soon your father.

You could feel Mikasa's eyes observing you. Seeing the tension in your shoulders, the sadness in your eyes, and the exhaustion in your face.

" Talk to me, Y/N." she quietly spoke. " I care about the both of you."

You huffed. Running a hand over the sweaty hair that has managed to slip back onto your forehead. " There's nothing to talk about."

Mikasa took a step towards you. " Eren's hurt. That's everything to talk about."

Video🎶: https://x.com/wankoplushie/status/2062470007855202691?s=46

#リヴァエレ

#リヴァイ

#エレン

#りばわん

#えれわん

#Lわん

#毎日リヴァエレ

#しゅびわん

💔 Eren Yeager — “The Heart of War”

Fanart inspired by Attack on Titan

Description This piece is a fanart of Eren Yeager from Attack on Titan. I wanted to capture the moment that reflects both his rage and his pain — the inner conflict of a character who carries the weight of destruction and freedom.

The shattered, stone-like heart symbolizes what remains of his humanity, while the faint red glow beneath represents life, emotion, and guilt still burning within. Lighting and composition were designed to focus on his gaze and the contrast between cold control and violent emotion.

Concept & Process

Theme: Conflict / Pain / Transformation

Mood: Dark, intense, emotional

Eren Yeager x Reader

In the summer, you meet a man who stains your mind like a cherry popsicle on your tongue. You meet him hot, sweaty, and wet, just the way you like it. 

It’s been weeks since the semester came to an end, and you’re alone, riding out the summer months of your lease. There’s hardly a soul left in your college town, the holdovers being faculty and middle-aged alumni who never grew up and still frequent the bar that doesn’t card every Friday. A few minutes walk away is your favorite courtyard that lies between (what you thought were) old, abandoned buildings. 

Smack dab in the middle stood an overgrown fig tree.

Despite the infinite shade the fig tree supplies, the heat of midday blazes through the leaves and beams at you like a million watt spotlight. It somehow ages the book you found in the used book store another century. Your stomach is level to the flat, grassy land beneath the tree, your elbows propping your chest up. Both of your legs are bent up towards the open air and crossed at the ankle. The book is laid between your arms, thin pages threatening to turn from the humid breeze.

A drop of sweat rolls down your temple and you wipe it away before it can dampen the hair that lays on your shoulders. You're wearing a thin sundress that ends just above mid thigh with sandals that were kicked off upon arrival and currently very much out of sight and out of mind. The seconds and minutes blur together as the sun moves not even a centimeter past its earlier position.

Something emerges from the grass in the corner of your sight. Vision blurred by the heat, you can make out something black but nothing more than that. Though, you can rely on your other senses when it starts to shoot water. The flimsy pages of your book are soaked and the ink floods into neighboring pages. Your dress is drenched before you're given the chance to stand and move away from the sprinkler's trajectory. The water drips from your hair down into the cleavage of your dress, sending a shiver to the curve of your lower back and makes your hair stand on end. 

Your dress clings to your skin and is translucent in places that it should not be. It would be public indecency to walk through town in such a state, so you decide to lean up against the building until you're dry enough to be publicly seen. The fig tree is off towards the very edge of an old office property, far from where visitors should be visiting. Besides the slight echo of a voice, no one comes close to the courtyard. 

It isn't until a few moments later that you realize your sad sandals and the miserable book got left behind. You tread through the mushy ground and bend over to pick up both items when a gust of wind finds its way beneath the hem of your dress and pushes it above the curve of your ass and flat onto your back. You stand upright and hurry back to the edge of the building holding the bottom of your dress down.

It's a success in your mind. Well, it was one. 

But you turn your head to notice a man staring at you with widened eyes. His hands grip two dirty blackboard erasers as he leans out of a nearby window pane and you know he saw everything. His eyes travel down your chest to your legs, and back up again, before looking away into the room. It makes your stomach drop. The combination of his roman nose, the small scar beneath his eye, and the cupid’s bow above his full lips make him just your type. The sleeves of his white button-up strain against his forearms, and they’re rolled to his elbow.

"Come here," he says in a low, quiet voice, like he doesn’t want anyone to hear. 

It's the richness of it that chants you like a spell. The man, with his hand covering his eyes, holds a coat from the window and swings it back and forth like a pocket watch that hypnotizes you into taking it. Your hands take hold of it and you hurry to slip it on before he can open his eyes again. It smells faintly of cologne and the color in places has faded with age. 

The window isn't far off the ground and you look around inside. It's definitely an office, complete with a desk made of a dark spruce, a bookshelf, and a few chairs. You could probably lay spread out on the desk and barely touch from corner to corner. It's all just very dark besides the natural light. You think and think before gripping the pane in the same spot the man had once stood, and climb over the ledge. 

"Thank you," you walk to the ceiling height bookshelves while he beats his dirty blackboard erasers outside of the window until they’re clean. There are philosophy books on one shelf, history books on another. It’s a little dusty, but then again so is your apartment, so you don’t judge. Other than the books, the office is devoid of personal belongings and pictures, leaving everything to the imagination.

He clears his throat, “You’re welcome to stay here until you dry off.”

You say, “Thank you”, again, like a broken record. You take a seat in one of the chairs separate from his desk and cross your legs. The side table next to you has stains from coffee spills and slight burn marks from the lack of a coaster. Even though the sprinkler water soaks you to the bone, it’s still hot and humid. You hope the water from your hair disguises the sweat dripping down the nape of your neck. 

The man takes a seat behind his desk and starts to annotate a book with a black ink pen and yellow highlighter. His hair reaches a few inches past his defined jaw and a couple strands sit tucked neatly behind his ear. Pen ink stains the part of his hand that lays on the book and his veins travel up towards his elbow. You take this time to pick at your cuticles and hide the scab on your knee from a shaving mishap this morning. Suddenly, he starts to pack his papers and organize his books into one neat stack. 

Staring more than you should, he says in a stiff voice, “I’m done for the day, but I’ll leave the door unlocked for when you’re ready to go.” He gestures to the coat rack by the door with his pointer finger, “You can leave the coat over there, too.”

“Thanks,” You kind of, sort of, mumble out as he leaves before you can think of anything else. The silence makes your ears ring and you chastise yourself for being such an unexciting guest, if that’s what you could call it. 

When your dress dries enough, you leave the coat on the coat rack like he told you to. The jacket, still a little damp, hangs on the rack. Against your better judgement, you let your nose get close enough to drink the scent, and hurry back to your apartment, taking the quiet shortcuts. 

—————

In the fall, you wear a scarf that matches the eyes of your new teaching assistant. 

After a summer thinking about the man who you’d never caught his name, classes resume and you try to push it to the back of your mind. It’s the last year before graduation and you have no time for meaningless yearning. Besides electives, there’s just one singular required course you’ve been avoiding for a long time. It has a professor who can’t teach, and a teaching assistant whose kink is failing students. 

The classroom is filled to the brim and you have to squeeze into the middle of a row and beg someone to move their bag. The professor barely gets to class on time and skips the syllabus straight to the reading that you guarantee no one did, and occasionally wipes sweat from his brow and brushes toast crumbs from his mustache. In the middle of class when a boy is struggling to answer a cold call question, the door pulls open. 

“Sorry I’m late.”

Your back straightens and your wood pencil creaks under your grip. You’d recognize that aged coat and that dark, dark chestnut hair anywhere. He still has those deceivingly lazy eyes and thick eyebrows that permanently point downwards like he has a bone to pick. You chew on the inside of your cheek when he sets his sights on you. His face doesn’t change, and he looks away. 

“Ah, yes. Folks, this is your teaching assistant, Mr. Yeager. He’ll be doing all of the grading, so go to him if you have issues.” Your professor smoothly deflects all possible responsibility onto Mr. Yeager with a shooing hand gesture. You pity him, having seen his dark circles up close. He takes a seat at the corner opposite of the professor and the blackboard, leaving you no excuse to look at him. You wonder if he’s looking at you. Class continues and the struggling boy is made to struggle some more until he is able to choke up a mediocre response.

Your professor assigns a paper due the first day of next week, and the class groans. Deep down, you wonder how they could’ve gotten this far into university being whiny crybabies, but you digress. There’s already occasional whispers from peers talking about dropping the class or attempting to find loopholes in the syllabus so they can skate through with barely a passing grade.

The class files out of the door by Mr. Yeager, and you follow. With your basil colored scarf tucked snug under your chin, you pass by, taking the chance to peek at him. His eyes are basil colored too, and they’re looking right at you. Hopefully the curt nod you give him is enough to begin the semester on good terms.

Eren doesn’t realize it, but his gaze follows you as you're swallowed by the post-class rush. Your scarf serving as a beacon of color in the sea of muted brown jackets and black pants. 

∘₊✧───✧₊∘

Seat by seat, you find yourself unconsciously moving closer to Mr. Yeager as the week goes on. The majority of your weekend is spent dotting I’s and crossing T’s instead of following your friends to their celebratory, first week bar-hopping adventures. Everyone files up to the front and places the hard-cover copy of their papers in a messy stack in front of class. When it gets to your turn, you place yours down before tapping the sides of the stack to straighten it. All around you is the contrast of students with thousand yard stares burning holes into the desk and others who brag about pulling consecutive all nighters to get that perfect paper. 

By the next class, Mr. Yeager has already finished grading papers. The fatigue is obvious (if you squint). He starts to call people in no particular order and you start to daydream. The windows are open and you can see the top of the old fig tree. Despite there being only two clouds in the sky, it starts to drizzle drops of rain, and it smells fresh, like the sprinklers had. You wish it was summer, you wish your professor knew how to teach, and you wish Mr. Yeager wasn’t so fucking hot. 

It takes two calls of your name to get your attention. Pulling your sight away from the open window, Mr. Yeager stands at the front of the class, already looking at you, waving your paper in your direction like he had with his coat over summer. You hurry to gather your books and walk to the front as he calls the name of the next student. It doesn’t even cross your mind to wonder how he already knew your name.

A big, fat ‘A’ is written in thick, red ink by your name and you can’t say with confidence that you were expecting it. He left comments in the margins critiquing your responses and fixing your citations, and as you flip through the pages, the pit in your stomach grows. As you leave the classroom, a group of your classmates pass by, mumbling curses and crumpling up their paper to throw in the garbage. 

You thumbtack the paper on the wall of your room above your desk and stand back to look at it. It’s crooked, but maybe it’s an allegory to the score you (maybe) didn’t deserve. When you dig through your drawers for pajamas after a shower, you find the dress you wore on the hottest day of summer all folded up and shoved to the back corner. It has a faint grass stain that no baking soda could tackle. You hold it up in front of you, glancing back and forth between the dress and the paper. Did he give you an A because you fucking flashed him? 

His attention may unconsciously be at the top of your priorities, but this just feels dirty. It feels dirty and scummy enough for you to lie in bed restless until your arm is numb and you feel your heartbeat in your pussy. Mr. Yeager’s office hours are tomorrow and you want to pay him a visit. 

∘₊✧───✧₊∘

There’s a winding line outside of his office consisting of every single one of your classmates. As the line shortens, those who had finished their meeting storm out of his office angry, or dejected, or both. When you’re next, you look over your shoulder and realize you’re the last one. He calls for the next person, and you crack open the door. 

There’s a boy still actively arguing about his grade when you step in, “Should I come back later?” 

Mr. Yeager and the boy say at the same time, “No–”  “Yes–”. They look at each other, annoyed. This leaves you lingering by the door with your clammy hand still on the knob. Eventually, your classmate gets so fed up with the silent treatment, he leaves the room, but not before slapping his paper on the desk and shoulder-checking you on the way out. 

“I’m surprised to see you,” Mr. Yeager says, taking a drink of water. “I thought I gave you a good grade?” You flush and you wonder if you should’ve even come. How are you supposed to ask your infamously evil TA if he liked your ass so much that he forged your grade? You take a seat in front of his desk and dig the paper out of your bag. It’s a little crumpled, so you have to awkwardly flatten it before you can set it down. 

“Yeah, uh, you did…” 

“Then what’s the problem?” Mr. Yeager must be all about efficiency, because he’s trying to squeeze answers out of you before you can even process being across the desk from him. He takes the paper from your hands and skims his comments, licking his thumb when he turns the page. Your mouth dries at the sight of it.

“I don’t really understand what I did to deserve it? I guess?” It’s hard to come up with the words, but you want to get it over and done with. “It… doesn’t have anything to do with what happened over the summer, does it?”

He goes stiff. If you were to look up from your shameful gaze at your lap, you’d see the pink dusting the apples of his cheeks. He swallows to clear his throat and sets the paper down, “It doesn’t have anything to do with… that. You did a good job, I enjoyed reading your work.” 

Your nails dig into your thigh, feeling a mix of satisfaction and disappointment, “What about all of your comments?... There were a lot.” Mr. Yeager looks up at you with half of a smile that looks awkward on his face, “Do you want to see how you compare to your classmates?” 

You lean forward, “Am I allowed to?” 

“Are you going to tell anyone?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t see an issue,” he shrugs and opens a drawer to his left to pull out a stack of papers from people who skipped class and didn't pick up their papers. He turns the stack to face you and lets you flip through to your heart’s content. You grow increasingly embarrassed that you’d thought you didn’t deserve the grade when you see papers typed in unreadable fonts, papers riddled with gibberish just to fill the page count minimum, and papers that stop mid sentence three paragraphs in. When you finish looking through the pile, you push it back towards him. He almost laughs at how sheepish you look. 

“Any other questions?” Mr. Yeager asks you, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. You wrack your brains for a reason to stay, but you draw blanks. Slowly, you shake your head and tuck the paper under your arm to leave with a smile that makes you glow, “Thanks, Mr. Yeager.” 

He shouldn’t have said this, he knows he shouldn’t have, but it slips from his mouth before he can stop the words, “Just call me Eren.”

∘₊✧───✧₊∘

The first thing you lay your eyes on upon waking up, are the four papers you’ve completed this semester. You’re proud of them. They all have big, red A’s written in Eren’s handwriting. 

Eren. 

You’ve gotten comfortable calling him that. You say it to his face when you’re alone and you say it to your tacky wall of graded papers with teary eyes when you imagine the fingers inside of you are his. 

Maybe when the semester is over, which it will be soon, you’ll ask him out all cliche and sweet. He’s been handsome since the day you’d met, and there’s something about that stern personality of his that makes you want him to break a rule or two. 

After a sudden deep cleaning session of your room, you find a dusty polaroid camera in the back of your closet. The dust gets wiped off into the garbage and you notice it’s still half filled with film. You wish you could claim that you were possessed when you strip off your clothes and lay in bed, the cold air making your nipples cute and perky. The camera is held above you and you look up at it through your eyelashes, making your eyes look beady and needy. When it develops, it’s hard to stop until the film is all used up. You’re positioned in an array of poses, one of them with the pinned papers visible behind you. 

You throw them into an envelope with his name written in a curly font on the front, and a pink, pomegranate flavored kiss mark on the back. It’s not like you’ll actually give it to him, but it stokes the wildfire of your fantasies to imagine if you did. The envelope gets thrown off to the side of your desk, smooshed between the books you take to class everyday, and you fall asleep carefree. 

The relaxation doesn’t last when you think you’re royally screwed when you wake up late the next morning. Finals week really snuck up on you and you can’t let all those study sessions with Eren go to waste! All of your books get scooped into your bag without second thought and you arrive taking heavy breaths through your nose. Your professor hands you an exam by the door and clicks his tongue at your tardiness. 

The exam doesn’t devastate you like it does your classmates. Though, you do occasionally get distracted when Eren walks by to make sure no one is cheating. Turns out, tapping the eraser of your pencil against your lips and pretending like you don’t notice him requires much more effort and focus than you’d expect, and you willingly ignore your seatmate who has a post-it note stuck up her sleeve. When you finish the exam, you find a quiet place on campus to occupy yourself with final papers for other classes until he’s back in his office. 

When the sun isn’t at the highest point anymore, you pack up and head to Eren’s office. By the time you get there, he already has a veiny fist balled up in his hair and a dying red pen in hand. After all this time, you notice he’s left-handed. A quiet knock at the door is enough to get his attention, and he wordlessly beckons you to come in and do your own thing like you usually do. 

Before you can even sit down, Eren holds up your exam and waves it around like usual so you’ll hurry to his desk, “Here. Good job.” You flip through the pages, your Cheshire grin widening at every comment. When you close your exam you look at him with a tilted head, “You know, you’re not like the rumors at all.”

He scoffs out a laugh, “Tell that to your classmates.” He sets his pen down and stretches back in his chair, his button up shirt slightly lifting to reveal the happy trail that you’ve been dreaming about for months. 

You set your bag on his desk and shuffle through the contents for a folder to put your exam in. Out with the folder, drops an envelope addressed to a Mr. Eren Yeager. It lies face up, words perfectly facing Eren. The both of you just look at it, staring at it like it’ll disappear. You slap your hand so hard on the top of it, the stack of exams fall into a messy pile that Eren’ll have to pick up once you finally run away. Your face is hot to the touch and your teeth have started to chatter. 

The worst, most unbelievable lie of all lies, leaves your mouth, “That’s… not for you.”

Your hand crumples the envelope and the polaroids within before you, very briskly, walk out of his office. Down the hall, you have to slap yourself for being so stupid. There’s a garbage can across the way, and you crumple the envelope some more before chucking it, in a desperate attempt to both forget the events that had occurred, and to prevent it from ever happening again. 

After you leave, Eren watches the door slam with wide eyes and a slightly agape mouth. He’s not stupid. He knows you like him. And it’s been really fucking hard to ignore it because you always play shy and have that chagrined look that makes his dick so hard it hurts. 

Since he’s technically not your TA anymore, now he can fuck his fist to the thought of you without feeling guilty. Not that he wasn’t already, but now it’s not breaking that stupid professor-student code of conduct that he had to start worrying about when the cold sprinkler water made your nipples perk up through your dress, or when the wind blew a little too hard and you flashed him your pretty, pink thong. It was embarrassing how little time he could bear to be in that office with you before he had to rush home to take a cold, cold, cold shower.

Sue him, but when Eren saw you in class, he was ecstatic at the chance to fail you just so you’d be stuck with him doing extra credit and make-up assignments that technically weren’t supposed to exist. It must have been that kiss of karma when you turned out to be top of the class and he had to spend an extra ten minutes trying to nitpick little mistakes that he’d typically overlook. Thank god you suck at footnote citations. 

Through his window, he can see the route you take to go home if he positions himself flat against the wall at a stiff angle with one eye closed. When he sees you literally running down the path, he takes the chance to walk around the building to blow off some steam. Right next to the furthest bathroom from his office, like a beacon, is the envelope crumpled and beat up, sitting pretty in the empty garbage can. Eren reaches in and flattens out the envelope on his thigh. He rips it open, meticulously sparing your kiss mark, and pulls out five polaroids instead of a cute, cliche love letter sprayed in your perfume like he was expecting. 

As he shuffles through the pictures, he has to lean against the flaking paint of the wall so he doesn’t collapse. His cheeks burn and his lips part. Eren practically barrels through the door to the bathroom and locks the stall. 

His one free hand fumbles with his belt and it clangs when he unzips his pants and pushes them down just far enough to let his dick free. The winter chill comes through the window and blows at his tip, now an angry reddish-purple with a thick beat of pre-cum at the slit, and he hisses. He lets his saliva pool in his mouth before spitting in his open palm to stroke it up and down his length, letting his head fall back in temporary relief with a sigh. 

The arm that holds the polaroids like a hand of cards is pressed parallel against the stall wall to help him keep his balance. When he squints and holds them up to the dying, flickering light, he can see all of the papers he’s graded pinned to your wall in a messy formation. It gets harder and harder to keep quiet, and he has to bite his lower lip so hard that he can taste his own metallic blood. 

He shoves the crumpled polaroids into his pocket and digs out the envelope. His cock hurts so bad, and pictures can only do so much when he’s already seen the real deal. Well, the ass of the real deal. His eyes lock on the kiss mark and he has no time to feel the shame of being so desperate, before he lets his eyes flutter shut. 

Eren’s lips press to the kiss mark and he starts to breathe a little harder, a little faster. He’s bent over, unable to physically stand up straight anymore, and he’s making out with this envelope like some virgin loser. 

His left hand pumps his dick to the pace of his heartbeat and he imagines you’re there with him. You’d be on your knees looking up at him with that chagrined look in your eyes, as if you never meant for things to end up like this. Maybe you’d take him so deep, he’d run his hand down your throat and feel his dick prodding at the skin. He’d moan at you how good you are and cum so early it’s embarrassing. He’d pull you off and drag you to your feet so he can press open-mouthed kisses on your neck, taking deep breaths of the perfume that lingered on his coat over summer. 

His tight fist easily slides up and down his dick from the spit, and he can feel himself getting close. His tongue lolls out of his mouth as he tries to get a taste of you through the envelope. 

It still has that faint taste of your lip balm. 

His hips jerk into his fist and thick ropes of cum coat his palm. He lets his head fall against the stall wall as he tries to slow his breath and clear his mind. The soggy envelope with a smeared kiss mark is wrinkled in his hand and he’s pissed at himself for ruining it. With a dry mouth, he looks down at his cock, still angry and hard. 

The exams stay in that same messy pile for another hour before an exhausted, shaky-handed Eren can organize them again.

—————

In the winter, you spend Christmas with your family who has no idea what you’ve been up to, and book an early flight to spend the New Year on campus.

You decide to play with fire and snoop around Eren’s office for no good reason other than you miss him. You’d been home for two whole weeks and could never quite get yourself off as good as when Eren’s red penned comments were in view. There aren’t any more excuses to visit his office hours, so what if you never see him again? 

The door is locked, but the window isn’t.

You pull yourself through the window just like the day you’d first met him. There’s no coat on his coat rack and the pile of exams are still atop his desk, probably all graded and alphabetized. The streetlights outside help you to navigate the room until your vision adjusts to the darkness, but it doesn’t matter because you already know this office like the back of your hand. 

Letting your fingers lightly drag against the dark spruce of his desk, you sit down in his chair and make yourself comfortable. You push your hair behind your ears just like Eren does when he focuses, and you pluck a red pen from a line of them on his desk. The post-it notes are stored neatly at the corner of the desk and you peel one from the stack to draw on. 

In the distance, you can hear music and chatter from the bars and people celebrating the new year in their own parties. A part of you is jealous that they’re having fun while you’re acting like a desperate fool trespassing in a dark office that isn’t your own. But you don’t linger on it too much, too busy shuffling through empty drawers. Too busy to hear the jingling of keys outside the door. 

The light from the hallway floods the room and you jerk your head away from the drawer that actually had something in it. Were those…?

Eren looks equally surprised to see you. He’d been laying in bed for the last hour staring at the ceiling all pent up and figured if he’s going to be awake he may as well do some work. But now you’re here. Now you’re here and he has to pretend he’s not trying to X-ray vision through your clothes. 

You stand up so fast, it knocks his chair back against the wall. 

“I, uh… I was just…” Your sentences trail off because you have no excuse. 

Eren closes the door behind him and puts his winter jacket on the coat rack. There’s still bits of snow on the sleeves that haven’t melted yet. He’s not wearing his typical suit and tie, but casual jeans and a tee shirt. He looks around and, from where he is standing, the only difference in the room is a missing red pen that’s gripped in your fist. Like he’s taunting you, he plucks the pen from your hand to set back on the desk and asks, “You were just?” 

He half-hazardly looks around the area, walking up to you closer than he’d ever been before. For every step he takes forward, you take backwards, until your thighs hit the edge of his desk. Eren wishes he turned the light on so he could see how flushed your face is. The chatter outside gradually gets louder. 

“I just wanted to see you,” You choke out, kicking a spec of dust on the floor. Your eyes grow wide as you look at him up through your eyelashes. The darkness makes your pupils dilate and you chew on the inside of your bottom lip. There it is. That look that he likes. 

Eren asks, leaning down until he’s eye level with you, abandoning the hesitance he originally had when you dropped that envelope on his desk. The corners of his mouth point up in a mean kind of way as he laughs under his breath.

“You missed me that bad?” 

There’s a flicker of sparkle in your eyes from an outside streetlamp lamp. There’s no way he’s trying to make it seem like this is a one-sided schoolgirl crush. It actually pisses you off a little. You grit your teeth and point to the open drawer he’d originally distracted you from and his eyes follow your finger. There, in the top drawer closest to his chair, lay the five polaroids displayed in a neat row. Eren blinks. They’re arranged in the order from his favorites, the one with the essays he’d graded in the background being the easiest to reach at the front. The envelope is in there too, but it’s since been ruined since his time in the bathroom and is unrecognizable. 

Eren runs a hand down his face and sighs, deep and heavy. You got him there. He couldn’t even pretend to be a douchebag to get you hot and bothered correctly. The humiliation of getting caught just like how he caught you sends a shock of energy straight to his dick.

You tell him in a faux tone of disappointment, “I thought we had something special.” 

You bring a manicured fingernail up to your playful frown, letting it press down on the plush skin of your bottom lip. Letting your eyes travel from his face, you catch a glimpse of the growing bulge in his pants that makes your mouth water. You tilt your face away from him, trying to avoid getting carried away because you’re supposed to be cool, calm, and collected. The least you could do was wait to ride out the humiliation you’re so desperately trying to hide. It was mortifying to see your pictures after you’d gone through all that half-hearted trouble to get rid of them, but him keeping them like trophies makes that hot, familiar feeling well up in your stomach.

His eyebrows pinch together and his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows to get rid of the lump in his throat. Eren can’t recall a time he’d heard your voice like this, manipulative and degrading. He immediately folds and starts to say stupid stuff he would never say (but really means deep down) had he been in a clear conscience.

“We did.” Eren corrects himself, “We do.”

You move the finger from your lip to his ear, tucking a strand of loose hair behind it. He presses his warm cheek into your hand like a puppy and his tired eyes look down at you. If anyone saw how weak-willed Mr. Yeager got at the sight of a pretty girl in a dark room, his asshole reputation would be ruined. Your heart thumps against your ribcage at the thought of it being just for you.

“Then stop trying to play mean,” your hand slaps his cheek a time or two. It’s soft enough not to hurt but hard enough to make him not try it again. You retract your hand to cross your arms, “I don’t like mean boys.”

As you lean against the desk, he puts an arm on both sides of you, trapping you on the desk. Eren tries to lean forward and get a taste of that lip balm from the envelope, but you turn your face to the side, making his lips come in contact with your cheekbone. Out of embarrassment, he tries to make it work and presses soft kisses down to your jaw. 

“What part of “I don’t like mean boys” do you not understand?” You ask before pressing a palm to his forehead. He lets you push him away a couple inches, but stays close enough for you to feel his breath fan against your collarbones. 

“I’m not that bad,” Eren says with a huff, looking down and playing disheartened. It’s hard to believe the difference between on the clock Mr. Yeager and off the clock Eren standing in front of you right now. The silence doesn’t last long before he looks back up at you, “But there’s a way I could make it up to you.”

This piques your interest and you pinch your eyebrows together, “I don’t forgive and forget, you know.” Your unconscious actions betray you immediately as you reach a finger up to Eren’s hair, twirling it around your finger like it’s your own. He softly smiles at this, leaning down so you don’t have to reach so far. 

“I doubt that.”

Eren moves like he’s magnetized to you, and your eyes flutter shut when you feel his lips press to yours. It’s hard to not have flashbacks of your nighttime fantasies in the moment, and you have to make a conscious effort not to smile. It may have taken the better half of a year but everything went just according to plan.

His nails scratch against your scalp as he threads his fingers through your hair, cradling the back of your head. His other hand, warm and noticeably clammy, gently kneads the flesh of your waist through your shirt. Eren is taller than you, but not enough where you’re uncomfortably tilting your head up. Not too tall, not too short, he’s just right. 

It’s clear he’s getting too eager too fast when he lets his hand drift down to the dimples in your back just above the curve of your ass, fingers twitching in desperation to move just that little bit further down. You grip his wrist and move it further up your back into a zone that is less likely to make you jump his bones immediately, but his hand teleports right back to where it was to start with. You’re fighting a losing battle against an unstoppable force. Your noses bump as you change the angle of your head and you feel his eyelashes brush against your cheeks. It’s such a sweet kiss, but you don’t really want sweet right now. 

His lips are a little chapped from the winter cold, so you swipe your tongue against his lower lip to which he lets his lips part. Your heads are tilted to the side for that perfect angle and Eren’s tongue eagerly presses against yours. He tastes like peppermint and it makes your mouth water, a wad of spit escaping down your chin. Eren groans when you push against his mouth and hollow out your cheeks to suck on his tongue, trying to get a better taste of him.

He nudges his knee between your legs, effectively pressing his bulge into your lower stomach. Your hands hook onto the belt loops of his jeans to hold him in place as his knee travels further up and up, scared this is the beginning of a wet dream that’ll end before you get to the good part. Your legs start to quiver as his thigh grinds against your clothed center. You try to make subtle movements to gain some sort of friction without being pinned as a bitch in heat but Eren smiles into your lips, immediately pressing his leg just a little bit higher for that perfect pressure. It has you whining like this is your first rodeo. 

Eren presses into you so hard, your head tilts back despite the hand supporting it. He lets out a long, drawn-out moan into your mouth when your hand makes its way down to palm him through his pants. You can even feel the warmth of it through the fabric. But it’s not enough to thaw your frozen hands, so you let them drift to his lower back, trying to sneak them under the hem of his shirt. When you finally get there, he freezes and his back arches with one big shiver. 

Eren groans, laying his forehead on your shoulder and gripping your thigh with one hand. On the other hand, you play dumb, “What’s wrong?”

He looks at you with gritted teeth, “Nothing, don’t worry about it.” Eren lets you drag your hands up and down the crevices and dips of his back muscles to your heart's content. He can try all he wants to hide the heavy breathing, pinched eyebrows, and blown out pupils, but you see right through him. Your eyes adjust to the darkness and you’re finally seeing him this close. His long eyelashes, the groove of his philtrum, the depth of his cheekbones. 

Eren shifts to press open-mouthed kisses from your neck to your collarbone, taking one steady motion to lick up the trail of spit from earlier. Everything is just so sticky and wet, but you can’t even imagine how it pales in comparison to the mess in your panties. He tugs at the hem of your shirt and you lift your arms to let him pull it over your head. His eyes flutter open to see if the bra you’re wearing matches the panties he saw over summer. You lean back with your palms pressed to the desk and fight the urge to shiver, nipples already perked up from the winter draft with, most importantly to him, no bra. 

You almost miss the way his lips part as he leans in. Expecting another brain-melting kiss, you lift your chin, but he just sighs and drags a hand down his face. Eren’s hand drops back to the desk and he looks up at you with a grin only a truly happy man could muster, “Are you trying to kill me?” 

A slow, shaky-handed Eren moves his hands to hold your tits. He feels your nipples press against his open palms. When he leans down to take one in his mouth, you whine at the warmth and your back arches into his mouth. He knew the real deal would be better than the pictures, but it’s just so different when you’re breathing heavy with your lip tucked between your teeth, looking down at him with your eyebrows pinched together. Eren can’t stop drooling all over the place. 

After all, you can’t blame a dog for slobbering when you wave a bone in front of its face.

As he’s working on one nipple with his mouth, he rubs at the other with the pad of his thumb, holding his free arm around your waist to keep you from moving too much. You look down at him and see his eyes squeezed shut and his eyebrows pinched together. Your hand makes a fist in his hair as you try to find some kind of grounding, and he groans. The vibration of it makes your hair stand on end and your nails scratch at the nape of his neck. 

Eren pulls away audibly heaving and you open your teary eyes just in time for him to grab the back of your thighs and lift you onto the desk. You steady yourself by placing your flat palms against the spruce, watching him press smacking, breathy kisses in a long line all the way down to the button of your pants as he lowers to his knees. 

Eren’s trying to take his time. Really, he is. But he’s already had what, five months (and some change) worth of waiting? He wasn’t a very patient man to start with, but this is really pushing it.

He toys with the button until it comes undone and slides your pants down and off your ankles. He rests his forehead against your lower stomach at the sight of that pretty pink thong. Your breath catches in your throat when he raises your thighs until they’re basically pressing against your chest. He eyes the wet patch and lets his thumb ghost over the fabric. Eren lifts his head to say, “Been jacking off to these since summer.”

His fingers, long and soft, let your thighs drop back to the wood of the desk and dip beneath the waistband of your panties to pull them down and off your ankles. You smile crooked as you prop yourself up on your elbows, watching him try to stealthily stuff them into his pocket before you notice they’re gone, like a magician's trick gone wrong, “Keep ‘em, I have cuter ones.” Before you can even finish your sentence, Eren moves his hand away from his pocket and throws your panties into the drawer with your polaroids instead, before slamming it shut with one mean push. It makes his desk shake and that poor stack of exams falls into a messy pile all over again. “You’re gonna have to pick those up, you know.”

“Genuinely I couldn’t care less.” Eren tells you, his hands holding your thighs in an unwavering grip to pull your knees apart. It’s all so sudden you squeeze your thighs together. He tilts his head and gives you a slow, taunting blink, “Oh, so now you’re getting shy?” 

At his words, you jerk your head to the side with a nose to the ceiling and eyes shut. “Make fun of me all you want, I could leave you and your stupid face in your stupid office right now if I wanted to.” 

And while you try to make your case, the strength in your legs start to falter and he pulls them apart, settling himself in between your legs like he belongs there. He leans down towards your face and you think you can feel his smile even without looking at him. It’s probably a grin that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. 

His face surprises you when you spare a peek at him. Eren’s bottom lip is just barely jutted out, but not enough where it’s supposed to be funny on purpose. His eyebrows are raised and pinched at the center like he’s begging for a treat. The constant change of emotions nearly gives you whiplash. You think he’s about to lean in for another kiss that’ll melt your heart, but the rough denim of his pants slightly graze your thigh and you’re thrown back into the reality where you’re naked and Eren isn’t. 

“Come on, pretty girl. Stay with me and my stupid face. Pretty please?” Eren says, leaning forward just enough that his hair falls from behind his ear and brushes against the apples of your cheeks. Your hand reaches to push his hair behind his ear, your fingers lightly tracing the hollows of his ear. You can even feel the slight bumps from old, healed over piercing holes. He presses his twitching ear to your palm, and the heat of the blood rushing to his ears warms you all the way up to your wrist. 

“Say that again?” You ask, trying to hide your smile, tilting your head to the side so he can press slow, soft kisses on your cheek. Your heart pounds against your ribcage and it feels like your entire body is vibrating like a purring cat. He pulls away and shakes his head, but not enough that you can’t smell him anymore. “Say what?”

Now he has that stupid smile that makes your stomach flip. It just has to be your luck that it only comes out at your expense. You put the palm of your hand on his forehead and push him back down to where he came from. He lets you push him down and slowly lowers onto his knees. Eren wraps his arms under your legs, one hand resting on your lower stomach and the other pulling a thigh onto his shoulder. Eren is under the impression that he’s played it cool these last couple of minutes, but now that he’s eye level to your pussy, he’s getting performance anxiety. But there’s no time to worry before he leans down tongue first. He doesn’t even need to spit on it. 

His tongue laps at your cunt, and the combination of messy, wet noises and the vibrations of Eren’s groaning is enough to make your brain foggy. Your back arches as you whine, turning your head so your cheek is pressed against the desk. You find it in yourself to look back down at him in between heavy breaths. He’s already looking up at you, eyes crinkling as his smile disappears between your legs. 

You wish you could be taxidermied in this position. Taxidermied with Eren’s nose brushing against your clit and his tongue prodding at your hole. His labored breaths warm your inner thighs and with the energy he’s sucking out of you like an incubus, he can maneuver you however he pleases. You blink and your knees are flat to your chest, his one free hand holding both quivering legs in place. One more blink and you’re on your side and he’s eating your cunt like a carnivore.

Your hands are restless and you have the corner of the desk in a white knuckle grip. Eren notices this, letting his hand lift from your lower stomach and loosely places it on your arm until it slides down to your hand. You mindlessly let your fingers interlock like it’s natural. 

You drag your interlocked fingers up to your face. His eyebrows kind of shift in confusion until you bring his middle and ring finger up to your mouth. The two fingers press against your tongue and you close your lips around them. He moans at the sight of this, pressing his fingers harder against your tongue and letting you suck as much as you want. Once they’re wet enough, you give (shove) him his hand back.

Eren pulls his face away from your core, looking at his fingers shine in the moonlight. Copying your movements, he laps at his fingers just to taste your mouth a little more. You don’t have enough time to think about how hot it was before he takes a slow breath and presses a soft finger to your clit. It sends a jolt of pleasure through your body and he lets his mouth drop to a lazy, crooked smile, his tongue resting on one of his sharp canines. 

Eren moves his finger in slow circles on your clit, waiting to see what you like the most. Just watching you like this, from this angle, is enough to make him cum in his pants. He presses a fingertip to your hole and watches it sink in with ease. With a curl of his finger, your back arches and you hold back a moan with your bottom lip bit tight between your teeth. It feels like he’s just toying with you.

Your hips roll against his hand, trying to find any kind of friction. You look down at him mildly annoyed, “Hurry it up a bit.” Eren is hypnotized watching his finger drag in and out and doesn’t meet your eyes, “Hey, I waited just as long as you did.” 

With that, he pushes in two fingers, letting his face drop to your pussy again. Eren’s tongue presses against your clit as his fingers curl, trying to hit that perfect spot. Your mouth drops open and you let a lewd moan slip that has you blushing the instant it comes out. You can feel him smile against you and start to move his hand faster and faster. In between his groans he takes sharp breaths before going back to work on your clit.

One hand darts to his hair when you start to feel that hot sensation creeping up in your gut. His hair is just as soft as it looks but your grip doesn’t let it run smooth through your fingers like it should. You hold him tight to your pussy like a dog on a leash, so he can’t even pop up to say something sweet about how pretty you look. Maybe he'd say something snarky about how he’d always known you were into him and not tell you about the hours he poured into skimming through class rosters and matching the names to club yearbook photos trying to find you.

With the willpower you had tucked away for a rainy day, you lift your head to watch him devour you. Eren stared at you from afar for the entire semester, daydreaming about what he could do to you (or rather what you could do to him), never realizing it was possible for him to evoke this side of you for real.  

Looking down at him, you just have to say something, “Having fun down there?” You manage to muster up a few measly words in a voice barely audible over the slapping of his fingers against your ass. Eren responds by meeting your eyes and rapidly nodding, unable to do anything else now that, in addition to the grip you have on his scalp, you’ve hooked your knee onto his shoulder and behind his head.

Eren’s arm throbs with exhaustion, he can’t feel his tongue anymore, and it hurts a little how you have a fist in his hair, but it doesn’t compare to the way his dick feels right now. Unable to ignore the pain in his cock, he starts to hump against the fabric of his boxers. There’s so much precum soaked into the fabric, it feels like he’s already inside of you. The vibration of his whining against your clit is just that cherry on top and you hiccup when you feel your orgasm coming, “Eren, I-I’m gonna!” 

He takes one glimpse at you and all of a sudden he…

You can’t even finish your sentence before you cum, your back arching off the desk and nails digging into his scalp. Your legs press shut, trying to shut him out before you get overstimulated. Eren pulls back breathing heavily, soaked in your juices all around his lips and chin. His fingers still pump inside of you until you can ride out your high. He drops his head sideways to lean on your thigh as he licks his lips. 

“I wish we could’ve done this a lot sooner.” Eren practically whines, crying crocodile tears as he presses his cheek to your thigh.  

You prop yourself up on your elbows to look down at him with a smile, imagining something dirty (and probably illegal), “Too bad you’re such a rule follower.” Eren can’t bring himself to tell you that he earnestly tried to fail you so he could’ve done some dubious, criminal shit where he gives you good grades in exchange for your panties. So, he just nods, pressing a mixture of kisses and licks to your inner thigh, occasionally kneading the flesh with his teeth. He slowly pulls his fingers from your cunt and makes sure you’re watching when he licks them clean. 

With a (slightly softer) grip on his hair, you lead him back into a standing position. He leans down to give you a big, fat smooch on your lips, trying to calm the heartbeat in his cock before he can even think about slipping it in. Eren starts to pull away in an attempt to unbutton his jeans, but you lower your hand to the nape of his neck to keep him close. 

You let your tongue rest on your lower lip as you lean up to lick your juices off his face like he’s a melting popsicle on the hottest summer day. Eren watches wide-eyed and lets you maneuver him around like a doll. In combination with your warm tongue all over him and the hand creeping down to his pants has him panting and watery-eyed like a dog. 

You unbutton his pants and see the visible wet spot on his boxers. Taking the opportunity to poke at him, you giggle with a fucked out blush on your cheeks, pointing at the stain, “You cum already?”

It’s all jokes but he can feel a bead of (nervous) sweat drip down his back, so he reaches behind his back to pull his shirt off, discarding it on his chair. Eren doesn’t say anything so you reach your hand beneath the fabric of his boxers and you immediately shut up when you feel just how much “pre”cum coats his length. Eren finally rips off the bandaid and pulls down his pants and boxers in one motion with his thumb, finally letting his dick breathe, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

His hard-on being confined in his jeans for such a long time has made his tip turn an irritated dark red with bulging veins travelling all the way down his length. It’s impossible not to want to give him a blowjob later. You swallow the collected spit in your mouth, head be damned.

“You know, Mr. Yeager, I kinda like you,” you hum, eyes trained on his happy trail like a heat seeking missile. Unconsciously, you reach your hand out and drag a fingernail down to his V-line. Your actions make him shiver and your words make the tips of his ears pink. 

“You’re not just saying that ‘cus I’ve got a big dick, right?” 

“Yeah, yeah, sure. You’re good on your knees too.” You’re trying to tease him but he shines like it blew his ego to the next level.

His tip has a splotch of his seed running down the side, sliding down the head and over his veins. A pout reaches your lips while your fingers collect the pooling cum at the base of his dick. You use it as lube to jerk him off despite him being just as hard as when you’d started. You press hot kisses to his collarbone as the pad of your thumb presses against his tip. Eren breathes heavy into your hair, trying not to fuck your fist.

He gets all too lost in the feeling of your hand and snaps back to reality when he feels a knot in his gut start to form. He races to pull your arm away before taking a second to compose himself. But now that he’s edged himself a little too close to finishing, his dick throbs.

You lean back onto your elbows, you doubt he can go much longer. Eren steps forward to smear his tip in the pool of slick between your legs. “If you liked that, just wait until I give you this.” The last word of his sentence is forced out because he has to bite his tongue to avoid cumming from just the tip. He leans down so you’re almost forehead to forehead. Eren watches as his cock disappears into your cunt with a tightly bit lip between his teeth. Your back arches into his chest and you moan as he bottoms out in one slow thrust. 

“Holy shit, you took it all just like that,” Eren says breathily, taking note of the way you clench around him when he puts his palm to your cheek and brushes away a strand of hair stuck to your temple and tells you, “You’re such a good girl, huh?”

You nod in response while Eren, now hyper-aware of how tight your cunt is, has to stop and focus all his energy on clenching his fist. He hears the echo of your voice telling him to move, so Eren comes back to reality after unpinching his eyebrows and swallowing the saliva in his mouth. 

The fist previously by your head, shifts to prop your thigh up, making everything feel that much better for you, and too much better for Eren. He hiccups through a whimper, “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

“Ngh– You’re just too big.” 

The dirty noises your cunt makes as he drags himself in and out are nearly muted by your collective whimpers and moans. You can practically feel every vein of his dick, that’s how perfect of a fit you two were.

Eren finds his mental grounding and looks down at you trying to hold on to the edge of the desk again. He lowers your thigh and bends down to kiss you. It’s hard to make coherent movements, so the kiss is messy and you harmlessly knock teeth a couple of times before finding your rhythm again. Your tongues mesh together and he bites your plush lower lip. Now you know the true meaning of a tongue twister.

Eren has propped himself up on his forearm and your hand grips his bicep. Finally, something to hold on to. Your hand can barely wrap around half of it. 

It’s just such an overload of senses when he bottoms out over and over: the way his muscles bulge under your fingertips, the pressure you feel as he nears your cervix, his hair brushing against the apples of your cheeks so light that it tickles. The desk shakes under the pressure and neither of you find it in yourself to care when papers, pens, and loose staples start to fall. 

While he’s looking down, he sees the meat of your stomach bulge when he thrusts into you. This makes Eren smile wide, putting his perfect teeth on display. He reaches for your hand and presses it down to where your tummy bulges. “You feel that?” 

You nod with your bottom lip tight between your teeth, tears forming at the pressure, “Fuck! You’re so deep!” He reaches his thumb down to your clit at your words. Good behavior should be rewarded, right?

“God, you’re perfect.” Eren mumbles against your lips, finding himself in an oddly sentimental mood. “Let me take you out on a date after this.”

It’s extremely hard to answer when he’s pounding into your cunt so hard you’re seeing stars, so you blurt through gritted teeth, “Only if you pay.”

Eren takes a handful of your tits. He kneads at your chest, occasionally pressing down on your pebbled nipple with his thumb. “Always a charmer, I love that about you.”

Your hand on his bicep clamps down even harder, sinking your nails into the flesh. He grits his teeth at the pain and groans when your pussy contracts around his cock. His thumb makes small, fast circles and he can tell you’re getting close. Now all of a sudden at the thought of an orgasm, his hips start to shake and move at an erratic rhythm. 

You’re too busy trying to chase your own pleasure to be embarrassed when you whimper soft please’s to Eren like a mantra. He’s loud next to your ear, trying to muffle his voice in the crevice of your neck. His only goal right now is to outlast you, and it’s not looking good for him.

Eren circles his finger (still tender and tired from earlier) faster around your clit until you come undone, turning your head to bite into the meat of his bicep in lieu of yelling through your orgasm. Even without your equivalent of a playboy magazine splayed out on the wall, you’ve got the real deal wrapped around your finger. Your teeth chatter when the overstimulation washes over you as you try not to tremble out of his grasp.

He takes quick, shallow breaths as he feels the knot starting to well up in his lower stomach. His hips pull away, leaving just the tip inside, to bottom out in your abused cunt with one mean thrust. The desk scrapes backwards against the hardwood as he drives into you, the noise echoing throughout the empty building.

Eren, ever the gentleman, pulls out after a couple more shaky thrusts and shoots his load all over your stomach… and all the way up to your tits. He collapses on to you, ignoring the sticky mess pressed between your chests. Taking a half-assed peek at the bite mark on his bicep, he wonders if he’ll need to get that checked out.

As Eren catches his breath, he grunts in your neck a quick, “How’d I do?”

You reach by your head to grab one of his red markers that he uses for grading. You bite the cap with a crooked smile and pull the marker away, adjusting it so it sits comfortably in your hand when you write a big, wobbly, ‘A’, circled on his pelvis.