Marc Jacobs Fall 1995

xo

Title: 𝙳𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚐ä𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 [8]

Pairing: Dark!Ransom x Reader, Lloyd Hansen x Reader

Summary: Your husband’s twin brother has always made you uncomfortable, and after two years of marriage, you finally find out why. 

Warnings: Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Stalking, Kidnapping, Basement-wife, Gaslighting, Manipulation, Breeding kink, Smut, Darkfic, Dead Dove: Do not eat!

Word Count: 3,572

A/N: poor reader. things are not going as well as she’d hoped. we’re honestly in the home stretch, i anticipate another 2-3 chapters before we’ve arrived at our conclusion! (i also have some plans for a short prequel, so stay tuned!) bottom divider by @firefly-graphics

You stare at your husband, open mouthed as he shuts the door behind him. On the tray in his hands is breakfast, and most of all—coffee. Real coffee, swirling gently in the fancy drip . You can’t think of a single thing to say as he moves past you to set the tray down on the table. 

The scent of his cologne makes your knees tremble, it’s so familiar, so him. You haven’t seen Ransom in person in so long it feels like some sort of trick. You look down at his hands as he arranges the plates, looking for the indents left by Lloyd’s signature rings—but there is only his wedding band, sitting on his ring finger. He looks up at you. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Sweetheart.” 

Your tongue is sticky in your dry mouth. “I did.” 

Ransom isn’t as good at pretending he’s unaffected—not as good as Lloyd. Brief upset flashes across his features before it’s replaced by determined placidity. It makes the rage simmering in your belly flare up even hotter at the sight of him. You’re angrier at him than you are at Lloyd. It isn’t logical, you know, to feel somehow more betrayed by your husband than his twin, but you do. You suppose Lloyd owed you less than the man with whom you had shared every hope, every dream for your future. 

“Let’s eat something, at least,” he replies at last. “You can hate me on a full stomach.” Reluctantly, you sit down at the table. You wonder if all your meals will be taken like this now, now that contact has been re-established, like some sort of strange exposure therapy. Ransom pours himself a mug of dark coffee and then a matching one for you. You don’t reach for it, though, not until you see him drink from his own cup. 

The plate before you is loaded up with fresh fruits—your favorites: cut grapes, melons, slices of kiwi—and beneath that is a fully loaded waffle, topped with fluffy whipped cream. You spear a forkful of eggs and chew as you stare pointedly at the mug in front of you instead of at him. 

Ransom isn’t like Lloyd, he doesn’t force conversation. He simply sits there across from you, eating breakfast in your prison like it’s the most ordinary thing in the entire world. 

“How could you do this?” You vomit up the question as you tremble, unable to swallow another bite. “How?” 

“We love you so much,” he begins, and you have to resist the urge to throw the plate at his head, food and all. “So fucking much.” Ransom reaches across the table to grasp your hand. “This is the only way this works, Sweetheart.” He lifts his hand to your cheek. You hate that his reassurance feels good, that you’re tempted to press your face into the palm of his hand the way you used to. A sob tears free from your throat. 

“If you loved me, you wouldn’t—”

“Do you even know what love is?” There is a cold edge to Ransom’s voice that’s unfamiliar to you, not because you haven’t heard it before, but because he never adopts that tone with you—never. “Love is doing for others what they cannot do for themselves.” You almost want to cringe away from his gaze. “You taught me that.” As his words increase in intensity you actually try to, only to have Ransom grip your chin with his free hand.“Even if it hurts.”

He sits back in his chair, and sips his coffee. “Now finish your breakfast, Sweetheart. I have a surprise.” The word surprise immediately gets your hackles up, and you can feel your stomach churning. 

“A surprise? What is it?” Ransom winks at you. 

“Eat up.” 

You force your way through the fruit—it’s sweet and ripe but it tastes like mush now as you anxiously chew and swallow. Ransom had always been a good gift-giver. It’s one of the things you’d valued about your husband, his attention to detail, his heart. That little piece of him he’d let you see, the part of him he guarded, held like a wounded bird in his cupped hands. The part of him that memorized your birthday three months in and threw a half-birthday party because he couldn’t wait that long to give you the present he’d gotten for you—a trip to Paris, to see the Louvre. Which one of these people is your husband, you wonder, watching him watch you. Which one of them is real, which is created? 

Or had you ever really known him at all?

When you’re done eating, Ransom hands you a little plastic baggie, containing an assortment of pills. A few you recognize—your pre-natal vitamins, one of your prescribed supplements—but there are some you don’t. You glare down at his offered hand with narrowed eyes before crossing your arms. 

“I’m not taking those.” You’re expecting Ransom to fight you—hell, you’re half expecting him to pin you down and force them down your throat. But he doesn’t. All he does is purse his lips, and place them down on the table. 

“We’ll revisit that.”

“We’re not revisiting anything!” You hiss. “I am not. Taking those.” Ransom steeples his fingers beneath his chin and raises an eyebrow. 

“You had no problem taking them when you couldn’t see them, Sweetheart.” Your stomach rolls. “It was my suggestion,” he sighs, fingering the little packet. “I thought you would appreciate the agency.”

“You’re still drugging me.” 

“Sweetheart they’re not roofies.” His flippancy somehow makes you angrier. “It’s all the things you were taking—perhaps a little altered for your condition, but nothing untoward. Your Celexa for your anxiety. Prenatal supplements, vitamins.” 

“I’m not taking them.” 

“Fine.” He picks the little baggie back up and places it in his pocket. Instead of tacit, clever threats like Lloyd, Ransom simply gets up. You look up at him in surprise, almost forgetting to be angry. 

“Y-you’re not going to force me?” You ask, shocked. Your husband pushes his chair back against the table. He looks sad. Really sad, like he recognizes the weight of what has changed between you. 

“No, baby. I’m not.” He turns towards the door. “But I’m not going to stay, either.” Your eyes go wide with fear.

“W-wait, why? I—”

“You’re upset. I understand, I do.” For his part, Ransom looks realistically disappointed, like he wanted things to turn out differently than they have. A sad smile flits across his face. “But baby if we’re going to build back what we had, build it stronger, you’re going to have to think about more than just yourself.”

You feel a pang of hurt in your chest at his accusation. “I’m not selfish! If any

thing—”

“Threatening to leave me? To take the baby?” Ransom shoots you a cold, disappointed look. “What did you tell me, Sweetheart? The baby will never know my name? What would you call that if not selfish?” You swallow thickly. 

That day feels so long ago now, though in truth you suppose it’s been nearly a month since you’d figured it out and everything had broken open and fallen all to pieces. It’s strange to think that that was reality in the same way that this is—that your physical body no longer occupies a world that exists only in your memories, when everything was perfect. 

“I’m going to give you some time to relax. Maybe It’s too soon.” Ransom shakes his head. “I’ll be back when you’re ready.” Your chest feels tight at his declaration. Alone? Again? You curl your fists into tight balls beneath the table, nails digging into your palms. 

“Don’t.” 

“Oh? And why should I stay? You hate me, you won’t take your medicine—”

“I’ll take it.” You mumble, and Ransom turns back around, a soft, surprised look on his face. You don’t want to go back to being alone, back to the endless hours of silence, your food delivered while you slept or bathed, to reciting movie lines just to have something to listen to—

“What?”

“I—I’ll take them. Please—you don’t…” You close your eyes.. “You don’t know what it’s like to be in here alone, day after day.”  It’s torture. The words hang unspoken from the tails of the ones you’re brave enough to voice. Tears press against your closed lids as you try unsuccessfully to keep them back. He sighs. 

“Oh Baby.” 

You hate him —you hate both of them, so much it seems to fill up every inch of you. So why do you want him to stay? Why does it feel familiar and right and good when he tucks you beneath his chin as you sob? You’d managed to hold them in with Lloyd, but you can’t with Ransom. He’s too familiar, your body knows him, thinks it’s safe with him, even when it’s not. But it’s hard not to feel that same security when he sweeps you into his arms and sits against the window with you as you whimper and cry, pressing your face into his chest. 

Ransom rocks you back and forth, rubbing circles on your back through the cotton dress. You aren’t sure what he says to you as he does so, mumbling muddy praise and promises into your hair. It’s almost worse than that day at the villa—you hadn’t been this hopeless then, this trapped. You’d thought you could leave then, that you could simply walk away from the snare they had set for you, though you never really could.

What other end could there have been?

You aren’t sure how long you sit there with Ransom, your heaving, hysterical sobs becoming hiccoughs. Listlessly you stare out at the waves, dragging the back of your hand across your puffy eyes. Wordlessly, he hands you the little plastic bag of pills. You take it from him without a fuss, tear open the corner and dump them into the palm of your hand. You consider them for a moment before lifting them to your mouth and swallowing them dry. 

—

The surprise, as it turns out, is books. 

Ransom brings in a brightly colored bag from the hallway as you sit sniffling on the bed, still wiping at your puffy eyes. It almost brings you to tears again as you pull out the tissue paper to reveal the prizes inside. They’re all books you’ve never read before but had been meaning to, even going so far as to put a list of them on the fridge in the apartment you shared with Ransom. Frankenstein. Hound of the Baskervilles. The Shining.

“You read my list.” 

“Of course I did,” Ransom says, pressing a kiss to your temple before sitting beside you on the edge of the bed. “It’s been up there for months.” He teases. “I thought we could read them together, like we did in college. Since you’ve been so lonely.” Something goes tight and achy in your chest at the memory of it, you and Ransom cuddled together on your narrow dorm room bed as you read him passages of Wuthering Heights and Catcher in the Rye. It’s so easy to picture it now, though you had not thought of them for months—maybe years. Your husband just a few years younger, draping his own sweater over your shoulders. 

I like when it smells like you, he’d say when you’d stammer about lotion or perfume, pressing it into your hands anyway. 

“I’d like that.” 

It’s almost like being home again, wrapping yourself in the soft comforter on the bed as Ransom begins to read. Is it so wrong, you wonder, to want to go back to when things were ordinary and perfect? Before you knew your husband and his brother felt something deeper than love, deeper than obsession for you—ownership, perhaps. You don’t want this new knowledge, as insane as that seems. You don’t want to know that your family is dependent on them, that their lives rely on your marriage in ways you never could have foreseen. Your father’s business, Nathalie’s school—all things they would lose the instant your relationship dissolved. 

And as Ransom reads, it’s almost easy to pretend you don’t have it, to close your eyes and just… listen. You’re half asleep when he shifts you into his arms, pressing soft kisses to the top of your head. You begin to stir, pushing at his chest, but he hums softly. 

“Just let me have this, Sweetheart. You can still hate me when I’m done.” Your husband holds you to his chest, stroking your hair until you fall asleep. He holds you like that for a long time, listening to the sound of your breathing. With a sigh, Ransom lowers you down to the mattress. He’s arranging your books on the bedside table when the sound of the keypad draws his attention.

“You’re bringing her presents already?” Lloyd drawls from the threshold. “I thought you said she wasn’t ready.” Ransom rolls his eyes. He knows what jealousy looks like well enough on his own face to know it on his brother’s. 

“I said that a week ago,” he says softly. “And keep your voice down. You know we had to lower the dose on the sedative.” Lloyd leans against the bedpost, watching as Ransom fusses over you. “Besides. You got to see her yesterday.” He shoots a glare at his older brother. “You took a fucking bath with her. You always have to be fucking first, don’t you?” 

It’s Lloyd’s turn to roll his eyes. “I don’t interfere in your relationship, you don’t talk shit about mine.” He smooths a hand down your cheek. “I called the doctor. He said he’ll be here Monday.” 

Ransom nods. “Good.” A small smile crosses his lips. “I think she’ll be excited to see the baby.” He rests a hand on the ever-so-slight curve of your belly, and Lloyd snorts. “With our luck, it’ll be twins.” You shift, mumbling something in your sleep as your face twitches. Lloyd kisses your forehead. 

“Shh, baby. M’right here.” His hand replaces Ransom’s on your belly. “We’re not going anywhere.”

—

“A doctor?” You stare at the two of them incredulously. “Here?” Lloyd scoffs at your shock. 

“Come on, Princess. It’s not like we’re in space.” He pats you affectionately on your hip. “Besides, you’re due for a checkup. Don’t you want to see your little nugget?” His words twist your stomach. You had scheduled an ultrasound for when you returned from Mykonos—not knowing, foolishly, perhaps, that you never would. I wonder what they told Dr. Pashik. 

Ransom and Lloyd are wrapped around you like snakes; your husband curled around you from behind, while Lloyd has draped himself across your lap, tracing circles on the exposed skin of your thigh where the dress has ridden up. They’d come into your room sometime early that morning while you’d still been mostly asleep, taking up residence on either side of you while you mumbled groggily. Of course Ransom and Lloyd had not come empty handed, bringing with them more gifts; books, card games, even a portable device they told you you were allowed to watch movies on. Of course, upon discreet investigation there were only streaming apps installed on it, no browser, nor any way to reach the outside world. It was password locked for extra security, which neither one of your lover-turned-captors had yet supplied you. 

You rest a hand on your tummy. “I am excited,” you say finally. “I guess… I’m surprised.” Until now, they had not allowed you to see a single person other than them—in fact you wouldn’t have known there were more people here than the three of you had Lloyd not pointedly told you. “What kind of doctor treats a prisoner?”

“You’re a patient, Princess.” Lloyd corrects you. “Not a prisoner.” He kisses your thigh. One who enjoys a discreet, hefty payout. 

“Someone you know from work?” You ask snidely, and Lloyd laughs. 

“Maybe when I can trust you, I can tell you.” He winks at you. You know your brother-in-law does work for “the government” but you aren’t really sure which government. You get the feeling he has no loyalty in that regard, though all you have to go on is your own baseless assumption. Your thoughts turn to the doctor, and you wonder if they might be sympathetic, despite Lloyd’s money. If you’re even allowed to be alone with them—in all likelihood you probably won’t. If Ransom and Lloyd have been anything they’ve been careful, you doubt they’d make such a rookie mistake this far into the game. Not now. 

You smile sadly. “I don’t think you’ll ever be able to trust me.”

“Oh Princess, I don’t know about that. After all, look at us now.” A lump forms in your throat. “All cozy like. I think you feel a lot more comfortable than you want to admit.” You swallow against the lump that’s formed, thick and sticky in your throat. 

“I just know there’s no use trying to push you off.” 

“Okay, Princess.” Lloyd blows you a kiss. “Whatever you say.” 

It is warm and comfortable between them, and as much as you hate it, Lloyd’s hands do feel familiar and right on your skin, though you don’t want them to. It occurs to you once again that you don’t know what’s in those neat little pre-packaged pill bags that they’re giving you, and as much as you don’t want to bask in the sudden intensity of their affection after weeks of stark purposeful isolation, you still can’t help yourself. It doesn’t help to know the rules of the game when they’re still playing it so effectively. All you can do is watch as Ransom and Lloyd move you around the board, to ends you can only imagine. 

“When is the doctor coming?”

“Tomorrow,” Ransom says, squeezing your hand. “I think we’ll hear the heartbeat, you’re far enough along, you know.” He sounds excited. You know he is—Ransom has always been excited at the prospect of fatherhood. He’d been downright encouraging when you had brought up going off your birth control, if the things he’d been growling into your ear as he rutted into you in your bed were any indicator, and they were. 

“We still haven’t talked about names.” 

“I had a list going but it was on my phone.” 

“Maybe we’ll take a look at it together soon.” Ransom’s hands drift to your shoulders, rubbing at the tense muscle knotted underneath your skin. 

“Will we get pictures?” You ask. “Of the ultrasound?” 

“Of course.”

“Then… will you send them to my parents?” His hands falter, and you turn to look at him. Your husband’s expression is unreadable as he glances down at his brother, an entire conversation passing between them wordlessly. You feel that same pang of old jealousy creep up into your chest, and you swallow it down. “I just—they… they would want to see.” 

“Maybe.” He says at last. 

“Where do they think I am?”

“I don’t—”

“I’ve been good, haven’t I?” You ask, shifting away from him, from the both of them. “Please. Tell me something. Anything.” Lloyd shakes his head with a frown, but Ransom sighs. 

“You’re in a very expensive hospital in Austria.” 

“My father wouldn’t believe that,” you say, shaking your head. You know your family—they wouldn’t just swallow some paper thin excuse just to get back to their lives. Would they? “He-he would want to see me.” 

“Your father is very busy with his business, Princess,” Lloyd cuts in effortlessly. “He has so much to worry about, and then there’s Nathalie’s classes…” he shrugs. “They trust us to take good care of you.” 

“So let us take care of you.” 

You’d suspected you had no tears left to cry, that perhaps you’d cried them all already. But as always, you manage to surprise yourself with more from the seemingly unending supply inside you. You want to push away their hands as they pat and comfort you, hushing you and wiping at their tears with the pads of their thumbs. It’s the only comfort you have, especially knowing your family isn’t looking for you. Why would they? You remember the bitter, bitter arguments you’d had with your own father when you had decided to move out. They relied on you, needed you—you contributed to more than a third of the bills, there was simply no way around it. You were hurting the family, damning them with your independence. 

“Have you ever thought about anyone but your goddamn self?” Your father had never apologized for that night, and like a dutiful daughter you never brought it up again because how could you? You were the oldest, junior mom, de-facto parent. Something shatters inside you at the thought, and you feel it almost like physical pain. I wonder if they can hear it. 

You don’t know when the arms around you begin to feel like solace instead of suffocation as you weep against someone’s warm chest—you cannot be sure, not through your blurry, red-rimmed eyes. But as your fingers curl into his shirt, and another warm set of lips presses against your hair, you wonder if perhaps this is why they chose you. 

Because who didn’t love to tinker with a broken doll?

to be continued…

Thank you for reading! Please check out my masterlist for other, similar works, and follow my library blog, @box-of-bones-library for updates. ❤️

helmut lang in net mode: web fashion now - laird borrelli (2002)

FIRST DATE, KINDA NERVOUS

part 2 of the golden quartet

art donaldson x reader, slight tashi duncan x reader, slight patrick zweig x reader

summary: the story of your first kiss with art donaldson in a hotel room, and your first date in a diner. cute, fluffy, healthy, a tiny bit suggestive but not really. group polyamory dynamics hinted at. (play: so high school by taylor swift). wc: 3.5k

“What do you think?”

You shrugged. “They’re cute, they seem nice, and your backhand is like, a million times stronger than theirs, so I reckon you could take them in a fight.”

“What, you wouldn’t help?”

“Please. I’m too weak for that,” you said, shaking your wrist limply in Tashi’s face.

She rolled her eyes at you and pushed it out of the way. “Whatever, fine. We’re going.”

She ran her fingers through her hair. After showering, the straight hair from the party had disappeared, giving way to her natural waves. You always thought she looked prettier this way. Softer, somehow.

“Yay,” you said simply. “But just remember that my parents placed my safety and care in your hands, so if we get, like, murdered or something—”

“Oh, shut up,” Tashi groaned, a laugh bubbling out of her mouth, “you were just endorsing them.”

“Yeah, well. I’m indecisive.”

The smile that slowly spread across Tashi’s face told you all you needed to know. Ten seconds later you had grabbed and shrugged on your jacket and the two of you were climbing your way out of her bedroom window.

Now, you’re sitting on the floor of a hotel room, Tashi on your left and Art on your right, Patrick laying comfortably across from you, propped up by his elbows.

The beer in your hand is pretty shitty, which is a fact you find odd considering you can only assume it was either stolen from one of their parents, or paid for using a bribe, and in both of those cases, wouldn’t the beer be better?

But maybe that’s not what you should be focusing on right now, you think, as Patrick leans forwards to take it from your hand. His fingers brush yours as the can crosses over. For the last hour or so, the four of you have gone through eleven cans of beer, each consumed one at a time, being passed around like a bong.

Your eyes linger on the way Patrick’s mouth engulfs the opening of the can, right where yours had just been, and the way he passes it right to Tashi, who does the same as she takes a sip. The flush of heat in your face and belly are hard to ignore, and you’re not too sure how much of it can be attributed to the alcohol.

There’s a stutter in your chest as Art nudges you with his elbow. “So what are you planning on majoring in?”

His cheeks and ears also look flushed, but you think that might just be a consequence of the story Patrick told earlier. It was a sweet story; you assured the boy next to you of that when he’d buried his face in his hands, but he still seemed a little perturbed.

It was a sweet story though, you muse. Tashi said that they seemed like brothers, but you thought they seemed like they were an old married couple.

You’re brought back out of your thoughts as Tashi hands you the beer. “Oh, um. I’m not too set on anything yet, but I think maybe journalism.”

Patrick lets out a whistle. “What, not physiotherapy or sports medicine?”

You shrug, and before you can stop yourself, you say, “Just because I was a tennis player doesn’t mean it’s my whole personality.”

Immediately, you wince. Wrong place, wrong time. You steal a quick glance at Tashi, but she seems unaffected. Right. It’s Tashi. The last thing she feels is insecure. She simply looks at you.

But for good measure, you add, “I mean, I can still do sports news, or something.”

Against the better judgement of your burning stomach and your sluggish thoughts, you take another swig and then pass the can to Art.

“Journalism suits you,” he comments quietly as he takes it. You give him a small smile. He takes a small sip of the beer, and you can’t help but watch the way his Adam’s apple shifts when he swallows.

“I need some ice,” announces Tashi. She rises from her position on the floor.

Patrick wastes no time in scrambling up too. “I’ll come with!”

Tashi gives you a look like she’s exasperated, but you know better from the way she waits for Patrick to grab his key and open the door for her. She doesn’t look back as she walks out, but Patrick calls out a teasing, “See you guys later,” before the door closes fully.

When you turn your head towards Art, you see that he’s looking right at you.

“You sure do that a lot,” you mumble.

He smiles in a way that seems endeared and a little confused. “What?”

“Stare.”

“Sorry, I just—”

“No, no, it’s fine. It’s nice. I- I, uh.” Your thoughts are racing, everywhere and nowhere all at once, as you struggle to find the words. The way Art looks at you sends a buzz of something in your abdomen, and your mind becomes all the more scrambled. “I need to stand up.”

You stand quickly, maybe too quickly, and immediately stumble.

“Whoa, you okay?” Art’s quick to jump to his feet. His hands find their place on either side of your waist to steady you. Now you really can’t focus.

“Yeah,” you hear yourself say, “I think I should sit down instead.”

You’re very aware of the fact that his hand stays on your waist as you bumble over to the edge of the bed and take a seat.

There’s a pang of disappointment when his hand leaves your waist, and another when he stands unsurely in front of you. You pat the spot next to you.

“Sit. Please.”

He complies. Perched on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap, he’s much closer than when you were sitting on the floor together. You fiddle with your hands and steal glances at him every now and then.

“I wanted to ask you,” Art breaks the silence, “do you ever miss it?”

You don’t need to ask what he means by ‘it.’

There’s a moment where you gaze off, eyes wandering towards the door, before they return to the boy next to you and you shake your head.

“I don’t, not really.” You bite the inside of your cheek in thought. “It was fun for a while, and I liked being good at something, but I think I just fell out of love with it after a while. Like my whole life became just tennis, and thinking about a future in tennis. If I’m being honest, the injury was like a miracle to me.”

Art looks thoughtful at that. “What’s so wrong with a life of tennis?”

“Well. I mean, nothing, I guess. It just took a lot more time and effort than I would’ve liked. And there’s all the things I had to give up for it.”

He looks at you like he’s waiting for you to continue, so you do. “Cheeseburgers, sleeping in. Love.”

The bed dips closer to you as he shuffles a little closer. It prompts you to look back up at him.

The curls on his forehead hang low, just over his eyes. His hand rests just next to your thigh, and he rests his weight on it to lean just a bit closer. “You don’t think you can be in love and play tennis at the same time?”

Art’s presence has a magnetic effect on you. There’s a gravitational pull that has you angling your body towards him and moving ever so slightly closer to him.

“I don’t know. Do you?”

His eyes dart down to your lips. It’s an action that doesn’t go unnoticed by you, and you feel the corners of your mouth twitch upwards as you do the same. You can almost feel the warmth of his exhale as your faces draw closer and closer.

“Can I?” Art whispers.

“Please,” you respond.

His hand comes off the bed to rest on your cheek, and then he’s kissing you. It’s soft, gentle, but there’s an urgency in the way his tongue teases the entrance of your lips, and the way he moves even closer towards you, almost as if he’s chasing you.

Your hands find themselves at the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. His other hand moves to rest on your waist. Then your thigh. You let out a hum as your stomach does a little leap. Then, he pulls away for a fraction of a second to take you in, before his lips are on yours again. It’s electric, when he tilts his head slightly to the other side, when the hand on your cheek slides down to your jaw to bring you closer, when you hear a low groan in the base of his throat as his hand slides to the inner part of your thigh.

Then you hear the key at the door, and you both jump apart.

Tashi has a cup of ice water in her hand when she surveys the scene in front of her.

Your bodies are still angled suspiciously towards each other and your hands both rest awkwardly in your laps. Little is left to the imagination. You can still feel the butterflies in your stomach and the racing of your heart when Patrick raises his eyebrows at the two of you, a grin on his face.

“So,” he begins, “what have you guys been up to?”

Art and you speak at the same time. “Oh, you know, nothing much.” “Just chilling.”

Tashi’s face is thoughtful, as she looks at you and her lips quirk up in a smile. She nods her head to the door behind her. “Well, it’s late. We should go.”

Your eyes dart back and forth between the three people in the room. Slowly, you stand, giving Art an awkward kind of smile as you brush past him.

“Wait,” Patrick exclaims, “can I get your phone number?”

She shrugs back at him, holding the door open. “Play some real tennis tomorrow, and then I’ll give you my number.”

“So like, if I win?”

“You don’t have to win to play well.”

You’re not sure where this leaves you and Art in the mix, but Tashi is looking at you expectantly from the doorway, and you fear you don’t have the time to decide now. With an apologetic look and a wave, you mutter, “See you guys,” and then you’re out the door.

In the end, Patrick does win. He gives a flourishing bow as Tashi shrugs and applauds him. She turns to whisper something in your ear, but the words make no contact with your thoughts. As Art looks dejectedly at his racket, then at his best friend across the court, you stand abruptly. Tashi looks at you, bewildered.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Wait, I was—”

Whatever her next words are, they die in her throat as she sighs and watches you thread your way through the stands and go down the stairs to the side of the court.

“Hey!” you call out. Art’s head perks up and his eyes search for the source of the sound until they land on you. He jogs to meet you.

“Hi.”

“Um,” you say, feeling suddenly like your foot has been shoved into your mouth, “you did really well.”

Art looks at you deadpan, but a smile starts to show in his eyes. “I lost.”

“Still, you were really good.” Your eyes glue themselves to the floor as you start to regret coming over so hastily without planning what to say.

“Well, thanks. Really. It means a lot coming from you.” Looking back up, you see him scratching the back of his head nervously. It’s an odd look, considering he’s also drenched in sweat, and his glistening skin makes him look even more nervous than he is. “Look, uh. I know we didn’t make a deal or anything, but do you think I could get your number?”

Maybe this wasn’t such a mistake. “Yeah, I think I could make that happen.”

SIX WEEKS LATER.

God, you’re stressed right now. The hem of your top has fallen victim to your incessant fiddling as you tug at it, scrunch it up, release it and repeat.

“You’re acting like it’s your first date ever,” Tashi says, rolling her eyes. There’s a smile playing at her lips that tells you she isn’t trying to be as mean as she sounds.

“He’s cute, okay? I’m nervous.”

Tashi comes up behind you and you meet her eyes in the mirror. A shiver runs down your spine as she tugs at the collar of your jacket, knuckles brushing your neck in the process.

“You should take this off.”

“What? Why?” You stare at her reflection. “I know it’s still summer, but it’s nighttime, so­ like…” Her deadpan expression has you trailing off. “What?”

“You can wear his jacket instead.”

There’s a hollow silence as your mouth forms an ‘o’. Your fingers move to tug at the sleeves of the jacket, gaze averted from hers for a moment.

“You think he’ll offer?”

Another eye roll. “The guy’s like, obsessed with you. Of course he’ll offer. Doesn’t hurt to throw in a little shiver either.”

“What if he’s not wearing a jacket?”

“Oh, he’s wearing a jacket.” She waves her cell phone in your face. “Patrick texted me an update.”

You grin and shrug off the jacket as you turn to face her. “Who knew Tashi Duncan was such a sucker for clichés?”

“I’m just trying to make sure your date goes well,” Tashi scoffs as she snatches the jacket from your hands. “You’re the one who swoons every time you watch a romcom.”

She’s right about that one.

Tashi smacks her lips as she hangs your jacket back up in your closet. “I still don’t get why you’re so nervous. I thought we broke all the ice at the hotel.”

“Well, I can still be nervous. Just because you and Patrick had sex two weeks ago doesn’t mean I have to be as confident.”

She sighs because you’re right. Tonight is your first date. With Art. Not your first date ever. But you sure do feel nervous enough to pretend it is.

You and Art have been texting nonstop for the last six weeks, but between the odd part time jobs you’ve picked up over the summer and his tennis training, you haven’t had any time to hang out, unless your best friends who managed to squeeze in their first date, first time and first sleepover together all in one go. But Tashi and Patrick are much more go getter than you.

Tashi didn’t give you shit for your lack of fervour in pursuing whatever relationship you and Art had, but you still felt a little perturbed when she called you the day after her night with Patrick, and told you that he’d asked about you guys.

(“Does he not talk to Art about it?” you asked.

“He said Art’s happy, but he wanted to know how things were going on your end. Since you guys have only been texting.”)

So now you feel pressured. Like somehow your relationship is linked to Patrick and Tashi. Like they’re waiting for you guys to catch up.

But you don’t say any of that. Because you want things to go at your own pace, you keep quiet. Because you don’t want to speak it into existence, even if Tashi will roll her eyes and call you ridiculous for it because she knows your life is yours and hers is hers, despite the way she keeps trying to push you in certain directions.

When the doorbell inevitably rings, you and Tashi exchange looks. She gives you a nod. It’s more firm than comforting, like she’s sending you off to play at Wimbledon and she knows you’re going to win.

Your parents aren’t home for the next few days, which is why you strategically planned your date for tonight, because God forbid they use their last few weeks with you living under their roof to embarrass you in front of a guy. You almost expect Tashi to answer the door for you as if she’s your mother, but instead, she shoves your bag in your chest, says, “I’m using your shampoo and eating all your snacks,” and pushes you out of the bedroom door, then closes it.

One last check in the nearest reflective surface, and you’re ready.

Art is dressed casually, like you, in jeans and a polo. Tashi was right in saying that he would wear a jacket. In the light of your front porch, he looks especially gentle, the warm light threading through his hair like a halo.

The smile that lights up his face when you open the door has the potential to end your whole bloodline, you swear. The way your heart rate picks up feels like some kind of fight or flight response, but you’re willing to ignore it all for him.

“Hey,” he says. His voice has a comforting cadence, you think. It’s been six weeks since you’ve last heard it, since you were always too scared to call him. But it’s a sound like coming home.

“Hi,” you speak softly.

There’s a bouquet in his hands, which he holds out to you, one hand tucked in his jeans. “I brought these for you.”

You take them gingerly, trying to fight the grin that threatens to split your face in half. He’s so cute. “Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

You put them on the table just inside. Tashi will eventually make her way downstairs and put them in some water for you. Closing the door, you turn back to Art, who holds his hand out to you. It’s such a strangely innocent gesture that you almost catch yourself giggling like a schoolgirl.

“Shall we?”

You take it, grinning like a madman. “We shall.”

“I never got to hear what you want to major in.” The fry in your hand is currently being waved around as though you’re conducting an orchestra.

“Oh. I don’t know,” Art averts his eyes to his plate. “I haven’t thought about it much.”

“I won’t judge,” you prompt gently.

He looks contemplative, and wets his bottom lip with his tongue briefly before looking up at you. “Okay.”

“Okay…” You gesture your fry towards him.

“You promise you won’t judge?” He asks, bobbing his head questioningly at you

You lean towards the table with your hand over your heart. “I swear it.”

“Physics. Or engineering.”

Sitting back in your seat, you survey him.

“That suits you,” you say genuinely. After you’ve said the words, you’re reminded all too well of the night in the hotel room again, and your cheeks warm.

“Thanks,” Art says, gazing at you. “Patrick says that too, before he calls me a loser.”

“I’m guessing you’re more studious than he is.”

“You’d be right.”

Another sip of your milkshake. “I think it’s cool. Maybe we’ll even have some classes together.”

Art smiles his eye-crinkling smile across the table. “Yeah, maybe we will.”

You don’t even need to pretend to shiver. The second you’ve stepped out of the restaurant, Art’s jacket is slipped onto your shoulders. It’s warm, and smells faintly like sandalwood mixed with laundry detergent. You resist the urge to inhale the collar. Instead you smile shyly, and take his hand. There’s a knot forming in your chest at the thought of the night being over, but when the two of you reach his car, Art doesn’t take out his keys. He turns and leans against the side of his car, hand still entwined with your own.

“I had a lot of fun tonight,” he says simply.

Your lips quirk up in amusement. “So did I.”

He hums. Your hands are swung from side to side as he looks down at them. You can’t help the laugh that escapes you as you step closer.

“What are you thinking about?” you whisper. You know what he’s thinking about.

He looks down at you, and does a one shoulder shrug. “I’m thinking about how much I want to kiss you.”

Your heart stops and gets jumpstarted again in the span of about six milliseconds. God. You knew it was coming, but you still couldn’t prepare yourself.

“Not asking anymore, are we?” You grin, chest thumping like crazy.

“Oh, come on.” With a tug on your hand, you’re pulled flush against him, chest to chest.

Art leans in to your ear, and whispers as if divulging a well-kept secret. “May I please kiss you?”

The tickle of his breath over your jaw sends a zap of electricity through every single nerve in your body. Your breath hitches. “You may.”

You’re not sure you’ll ever get sick of Art Donaldson’s smile. The curve of his mouth as he leans in, brushing his nose to yours before your lips meet.

Your computer pings.

Patrick Zweig sent you a friend request.

You raise an eyebrow and hit ‘accept.’

A minute later, there’s another notification.

Patrick Zweig wrote on your wall. “Congratulations on a successful first date with @Art Donaldson! 😘”.

Bad Reputation (Ain't Shit Series)

SUMMARY: Every story has a beginning. This is Amalia's.

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Amalia Wright, Ransom Drysdale x Black!OC

Warnings: Angst, Discussions of Drug Use, Offensive Language, Colorism, Discussion of Weight Differences, Dysfunctional Family Dynamics, Cursing, Mother-Daughter Tension, Underage Drinking, Illegal Substance Usage, Depictions of Underage Drinking, Flashback Fic, Mentions of Central Park East in New York -- No harm or offense intended and it's used for storytelling purposes only; WC: 2376

A/N: Hey! It has been a month since I posted part one of this series and the response has been wonderful! Thanks so much for the love and support. I am excited to continue this journey with you all and dive deeper into Amalia's world. This story has really taken up a special place in my heart, so I hope this next part resonates. It's a little sad, but we get a deep dive into the things that have shaped Amalia. Beta'd by my boyfriend :) Please enjoy -Lyv

Song Inspo: Bad Reputation - Joan Jett

Masterlist Previous Chapter

“He left half of his estate to you.”

Half. To you. 

To you. 

Me.

When I was a little girl, I lived in a one-bedroom apartment with my mama and baby sister. We were placed smack in the middle of Darlington, South Carolina’s toughest projects. My mama scrapped and scrimped and starved trying to make sure my sister and I were well taken care of. It was just us girls, after all. 

I did have a dad for the first five years of my life. But that bastard wasn’t interested in the little family he created with my mama. Instead, he wanted to rip and run the streets, chasing after anything that wore a skirt. That man brought a whole new meaning to the term “papa was a rolling stone”. But his absence didn’t make much of a difference one way or another. He was hardly ever home, to begin with, so I didn’t notice when he just…stopped coming home. I can’t place the moment it dawned on me that we were finally, for real this time, on our own. 

But my mama knew immediately. 

I don’t remember the day or the week or the month. But I remember my mama’s face like it was yesterday. It was mid-day. She stood at the window with my sister hiked up on her hip. Stephania was two at the time, so she didn’t get what was going on either. She babbled incoherently at my mama, but her toddler noises fell on deaf ears. My mother’s eyes were blank as she stared outside. It was a bright summer day with a cool breeze gently rustling the trees at the playground across the street. 

I don’t know how long mama stood there, maybe an hour or so, but I do know that my mama changed from that day on. Her face was blank, sure, but the heartbreak in her eyes was as clear as the sky outside. There were no tears in her eyes, only a mixture of emotions that swirled like a raging storm. Then, all at once, those emotions faded. She tucked them away one by one until all that was left were hardened spheres of grey. Mama didn’t even spare me a glance as she set my sister down, told me to watch her, and went to the kitchen to make us lunch. 

After that, my mom was never the same. She never…loved the same after that. 

See, I took after my dad with my almond brown skin and plump cheeks. My sister, on the other hand, took after our mother. Stephania was a stunner from the age of three with skin like golden honey and upturned, whiskey brown eyes. Neither of us inherited her stormy grey eyes, though. Those were hers and hers alone. Steph was also petite like our mother as well, a trait I didn’t seem to inherit either. I was dark and on the chubby side, so my mama did everything she could to change that. From flash diets to dance classes, to trying creams that could lighten my skin-- Mama tried everything under the sun. But my deep hue endured and that stubborn baby fat just wouldn't give up. As a five-year-old, you don't think anything of it. It's just another day with mommy to you at that age.

But the day our father left was the day I realized just how differently my mother really treated me.

I was eight when my mother and I had our first huge, blowout fight. I don’t remember how the fight started. Probably over something Steph did that I got blamed for. I remember her standing by the couch, at the end furthest from me, as I stood at my bedroom door. I also remember, clear as day, the unicorn stuffie she had given to me for my fifth birthday. She got it two months before dad left us. It sat on my pristinely made bed as I looked at it and then back at her as she said-- 

“I should be able to depend on you!” 

There was a long pause after that. So long, I felt like my feet had grown roots in the ground. I couldn’t move, pinned beneath my mother's hard stare. And all she did was look at me. She looked at me like I was the crazy one. As if I should be able to understand why her stress should rest on my eight-year-old shoulders.

Then, seemingly reading my mind, she scoffed and rolled her eyes as if to say that being eight didn’t matter. As she brushed by me to get to her room, a chill ran down my spine. Something told me that, to my mother, being eight didn’t matter. It was time to grow up. 

From that day on, I became the problem child. Stephania was her perfect, golden child. I became the one who had to pull my weight if I was to ever measure up in my mama’s eyes. Stephania barely had to lift a finger. I had the most chores and the most responsibility. If anything went wrong in the house, best believe that blame fell on me. Sure, I was the oldest and some responsibility was to be expected but I was still a child. I still needed my mother. But most times, I was left to fend for myself and Stephania while bearing the brunt of my mother’s ire. I didn’t blame Steph, though. It didn’t matter how bad things were with mom-- she was my baby sister and nothing was gonna change that.  

Besides, no matter what I did, I was never enough for my mother. And on those rare occasions that I went against her, she saw that as me proving what she already believed-- that I was a bad seed after all. 

And when that happened, it was always--

“Why can’t you ever do what I ask you for once?”

“You never do anything I tell you. I’m telling you something for your own good!”

And that gets real tiring after a while. 

I love my mama. I love that woman more than life itself but she doesn’t make it easy on you. She doesn’t make it easy for you to feel her love. And she certainly doesn’t make it easy for you to love her. Instead, she makes you fight tooth and nail for a morsel of her attention or some semblance of affection. And that, too, gets tiring after a while. 

A person can only take so much. My mother treated me like a fucking animal. Like this thing, this beast that she needed to tame. Truth be told, I think my mama saw herself in me. She saw every aspect of herself that she ever hated and, in turn, she despised me. I was nothing more than a conquest to her-- the personification of fears she longed to conquer.

So, I became the fucking animal she wanted. I became the kind of primordial beast that could never be conquered. Never destroyed or tamed. 

For every time she called me disobedient or disrespectful-- or selfish and unappreciative-- I started giving her a reason to see me that way. I started being exactly what she wanted me to be. When I was younger, it was simple stuff like talking back and not doing my chores. But when I got older, things got a lot more complicated. 

It started with sneaking out to meet the local potheads in my neighborhood when I was twelve, almost thirteen. They were three or four years older than me. I did little favors for them in exchange for the weed I couldn’t afford. It was small things like stealing from the corner store for them or doing the school work they were too fucked up to do. It was a good gig for a while, a great way to forget the bullshit going on at home. But when I started high school, I started looking for something harder to take the edge off. I tried coke but it wasn’t really my style-- I didn’t like shit going up my nose. Tried LSD and prescription drugs, too, but all they did was take me to the places I was trying to avoid. Bad trips are no joke.

Then, at my first high school party, I got a taste of alcohol. I had been offered before by the junkies I ran with but I was too scared to try it. I never felt pressured with my neighborhood crew but high school was a different field altogether. In a room full of your drunken peers, with eyes watching every move you make, you’ll do anything to fit in. So, one shot of Henny became two and then it turned into Vodka, and so on. The party got busted by the end of the night, and I was one of many teens caught because we were too drunk to see straight let alone run properly. Needless to say, I was pretty popular around the police department by the ripe age of fourteen.

The final straw came during my sophomore year of high school. 

Back then, I had long, dark natural hair that fell to my waist when blow-dried. It was the only thing about me that my mama took any real pride in. She never let me get anything more than a trim, no dyes, and absolutely no heat other than a blow-dry.  Mama coveted my hair like it was her own. She even did my hair herself to ensure that I wouldn’t mess it up. Those were the few moments she was soft with me. It was the only time I felt like she cared for me. But as soon as my hair was dried, moisturized, and put into a new protective style…the walls went back up. 

So, I cut it. 

I headed straight to the hair salon after school one day and got my hair cut up to my shoulders. I don’t know what possessed me to do it. I don’t recall what triggered this rash decision, but I went through with it anyway. The lady, a middle-aged black woman with a cute smile was hesitant at first but she got to clipping when I threatened to sit in the white lady’s chair. Then I had her flat-iron it and add some fiery red streaks-- a special "fuck you" to my mom. And she fucking hated it…but that made me feel good. 

We argued for hours that night. The worst fight we’d ever had at that point. She told me I was just like my father-- a lazy troublemaker. Only good for lying on my back. I told her the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. She was the single mother of two, not me. She slapped me for that and called me a sorry piece of shit. I shoved her and called her a selfish bitch. I left that night and didn’t come home for three days. But then Stephania found me one evening, hanging with friends in some back alleyway. We were all crossfaded as hell, giggling around a trash fire and burning our schoolwork for fun.

“Mala,” She called, her voice tiny and frail.

I sobered up as soon as I saw her. She was crying, saying Ma wouldn’t help her with her science project or something like that. Steph looked so fucking scared standing in that cold alley wearing a hand-me-down jacket with the hood pulled tight over her head. She was shaking like a leaf, too. It was cold out but I was too fucked up to notice. Guilt dropped through me like lead. Steph didn’t deserve to see me like that. She was only twelve for fucksake. So I pulled it together as best I could, stole some supplies from the store, and I helped my sister put together the best damned solar system ever.

Ma praised Steph for her hard work. She never acknowledged me.

About a month after the “incident”, mom decided that a change of scenery would do us-- me-- some good. Who would’ve thought that of all the shit I could do, cutting my hair was the most heinous? 

She packed my sister and me up, along with our meager belongings, and moved us from the pitiful projects of South Carolina to the elite slums of New York. We was finally gonna be “fancy” broke. Mama had some cousins up in the Bronx with the hookup in East Harlem. She got a two bedroom for real cheap-- well, as cheap as can be in New York-- and that’s where we settled. Ma got us enrolled in school fairly quickly and Central Park East was where I would spend the rest of my high school years. 

I fucking hated that place.

I hated it because it wasn’t home. Because it wasn’t my tiny little high school where everyone knew everyone. I hated it for everything that it wasn’t. But I mostly hated that place because, suddenly, I was thrown into this giant new pond where I was the tiniest fish of all. I was a nobody from some no-name town in the middle of fucking nowhere. And they treated me like I was from some no-name town, too. 

So, I did what I knew how. I acted out, got in with the wrong crowd, and figured out the best places for getting high between classes. I barely talked to my mother those days. I don’t recall seeing her very much either-- not that I truly cared. I found ways to occupy my time, so her absence didn't make a difference. There was this girl, Marta, who lived in the apartment down the hall from us with her mom and little sister. We laughed about how similar our lives were and bonded over silly things like boys and popular music groups. But she didn’t go to CPE, so we only hung out occasionally. 

Most days, it was just Steph and I hanging out after school. 

As the years went by, Stephania got older and prettier and was still my pride and joy. My best friend. When mom and I would argue, Steph tried to play mediator sometimes. But when small arguments turned into screaming matches, she would stay out of sight until it was over. Then, she would be there for me with a sheepish smile and corny joke to lighten the mood. The fights bothered her, of course, but she never let mom and I’s bickering get her down. It was like she was a cloud of Teflon-- durable yet pliable and soft. No matter what, Stephania had my back. 

It was actually Steph who had warned me about Ransom. 

“He’s a goddamned womanizing, manipulative, lying snake,” She had said. 

I just laughed her off, determined to be different. My relationship with Ransom would be better than that. Fighting for love wasn’t new to me. I was used to it.

What was one more battle?

A/N: I hope you enjoyed it! I should be getting chapter three out soon so be on the lookout for that. Thanks for reading and please remember to like and reblog! Feedback is always appreciated. Also feel free to drop in my inbox to make requests, ask questions, or just chat. It would really make my day :)

Next Chapter: This Way

Banners: @maysdigitalarts

Dividers: @firefly-graphics

Title Card: Me :)

Backup Blog: @thegirlonhamilton

Masterlist

obsessed with this all black 2006 chanel cambon bag rn 😫

heyyy queen i js saw your workss & idk if u take requests but could you do a really REALLY obsessive eren with black readerrr?? 😭😭 your writing is really phenomenal too queen keep goinggg

You

Summary: You were his the moment he saw you. To you, it was fate that you met Eren, but to him? To him, everything was completely designed and manipulated by him. ۶ৎ Eren x black fem reader ۶ৎ

Context: Slight violence (Not to reader), reader is a single mother, stalking, obsessed Eren, emotional manipulation, unprotected sex, spying, missionary, doggy, cunnalings, oblivious reader, stripper, baby trapping

Babble; Hey girl, hope you like it x

Word count — 6.7k

The first time Eren saw you, he wasn’t even supposed to be there.

It was Connie’s birthday, a half-assed plan that led to a night full of neon lights, bass-heavy music, and the scent of liquor clinging to sweat-slicked skin. He wasn’t interested in the celebration, not really. But then, you walked onto the stage, and he lost the ability to focus on anything else.

You weren’t looking at him—you weren’t looking at anyone in particular—but that didn’t matter. Because from that moment on, you belonged to him.

He hadn’t planned on this. He wasn’t the kind of man to get distracted, let alone obsessed. But there you were, completely unaware that you had just changed the course of his life.

He came back the next night. And the next. And the next.

It’s pathetic—he knows that—but obsession is an ugly thing.

But Eren didn't mind being ugly for you.

At first, it was just about seeing you, memorising the way your body moved, watching the way other men watched you. But then, curiosity turned into something deeper, something darker.

Eren didn’t just want to watch you anymore. He wanted to know you.

So, he followed you home one night. Not too close, just enough to see where you lived. A small apartment on the outskirts of town, tucked between a laundromat and a corner store. He stayed outside for hours, wondering what you were doing inside. If you were alone. If you were thinking about him the way he thought about you.

Then he started digging.

He found out your real name, not just the stage one. Learned where you went to school, who your friends were. And then, one day, as he sat parked outside your apartment, he saw something that made his stomach twist.

A child.

A little girl, no older than three, holding your hand as you walked her up the steps.

Eren had never considered that you had something—someone—waiting for you. The thought made his blood run hot, his jaw tightening with something ugly and possessive.

But it didn’t change anything.

It just meant he had more to protect.

You huffed as you finally stepped off stage, rolling your shoulders to shake off the weight of another long shift. The night had been a successful one—money rained, hands reached, and men gawked. Same as always.

Sometimes, you hated yourself for it. Stripping for men who were married, engaged, or just too pathetic to go home to their girlfriends. Men who would rather throw money at you for a fleeting fantasy than put in the effort to love the women waiting for them.

But then, you remembered why you did it.

Your phone lit up the second you unlocked it, and the first thing you saw was a picture of your daughter grinning at the camera. A message from your sister followed right after.

She’s been out for hours; don’t worry, you can come get her in the morning.

You smiled, relief easing the tightness in your chest. You were a single mother, juggling work and school, and this was how you kept food on the table. Your friend Historia had been the one to convince you to try it, going on and on about the rich men who threw money at her just to watch her dance.

It was supposed to be temporary. A couple of nights, at most. But then nights turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and now you were one of the regulars' favorites.

Your gaze flickered down to the cash buried at your feet. You and the other girls were already counting your earnings for the night. Lately, you'd been raking in more than usual—not that you were complaining.

“And there you have it, folks—the best dancer out there,” Historia teased, nudging you with her shoulder.

You giggled, shoving her back. “Oh, come off it. There was a bachelor party tonight, and I did a lot of lap dances. It’s probably all from that.”

Historia hummed knowingly, looping her arm with yours as you both made your way out of the club. The bouncer nodded as you passed, and the two of you stepped into the cool night air, the scent of cigarette smoke and lingering cologne still clinging to your skin.

“I still don’t get why you park so far away,” you mused. “You do know we have parking, right?”

Historia scoffed. “Yeah, and if a guy sees what car I drive, he’ll be waiting for a ‘private lesson.’ I am not about to go to jail for killing some dude who can’t take no for an answer.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you walked her to her car. The streetlights flickered above you, casting shadows across the pavement.

By the time you started your own walk home, exhaustion clung to your bones, making every step heavier than the last. The streets were nearly empty, the silence stretching too thin. That was when you heard them.

Footsteps.

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t want to turn around, didn’t want to confirm what you already knew. But the panic creeping up your spine made your breath hitch, your fingers curling around the strap of your purse.

Before you could move, another set of footsteps cut through the silence.

A figure stepped between you and whoever had been following—a man, broad-shouldered, with long brown hair and piercing green eyes. He didn’t even look at you at first, just over his shoulder, gaze sharp and assessing.

Then, he turned, expression softening.

“You alright?” His voice was smooth, calm.

You swallowed, trying to steady your breathing. “I—I think that guy—”

“He’s gone now.” He offered you a reassuring smile. “You should be careful walking alone this late.”

Relief flooded through you, making your knees weak. “Yeah. Thank you.”

“Let me walk you home,” he said easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Just to be safe.”

You hesitated. You didn’t know him. But something about him felt… safe. Like you could trust him.

So, you let him.

Because the first time you met Eren Yeager, the alarm bells were silent.

He walked half a step behind you, just close enough that you could feel the quiet reassurance of his presence. Every now and then, your eyes flickered toward him, taking in the way the streetlights cast shadows across his sharp features. He was handsome—undeniably so—but there was something else about him, something that made your pulse stutter in a way you couldn’t quite place.

“I’m Eren, by the way.” He glanced at you, waiting for your name in return.

You hesitated for only a moment before offering it, watching as his lips curled into a slow, pleased smile. He already knew it, of course. Had whispered it to himself more times than he could count, tracing the syllables in his mind like a prayer.

“It suits you,” he murmured.

You laughed softly, tucking a loose curl behind your ear. “Yeah? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Eren shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Just… you seem like the type of person who makes a name their own.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “That’s oddly poetic for someone who just scared off a creep.”

A small chuckle left him, effortless and warm. “What can I say? I contain multitudes.”

The two of you walked in comfortable silence for a few blocks. He let you set the pace, let you feel like you had control of the situation—like this was just a chance encounter, a stroke of luck on an otherwise unsettling night.

And you believed it.

That was the best part.

“Here’s me.” You gestured toward your building, already fishing out your keys. “Thanks again for, y’know… all of that.”

Eren tilted his head, expression unreadable. “You don’t have to thank me. Just be safe, alright?”

There was something so genuine in the way he said it that you felt a pang of guilt for doubting him at all. You nodded, smiling as you stepped inside, giving him one last glance before the door shut behind you.

Eren didn’t move right away.

Instead, he watched as the light in your window flickered on, his fingers twitching at his sides. He could see the faint silhouette of you moving inside, hear the faint sound of your voice when you called your sister to check on your daughter.

It took everything in him not to stay there all night.

But he didn’t have to.

Because this was just the beginning.

And soon enough, you wouldn’t just see him as a stranger in the night.

You’d see him as exactly what he was—an irreplaceable part of your life.

Eren remembers when he saw you again by 'coincidence'. It was your local farmers market; the surprise was evident on your face, but he remembered the way your eyes shifted to him, the way he intrigued you.

"Fancy seeing you again." His voice was smooth, casual, but there was a flicker of something deeper in his expression—something unreadable.

You bit your lip to keep from smiling too wide. As pathetic as it sounded, you hadn’t stopped thinking about him. And how could you? Even now, dressed down in a grey tracksuit with his long hair tied back, he looked like he’d stepped out of a damn daydream.

"This is the closest farmers market to me, which I’m grateful for because of her." You gestured to your daughter, still knocked out in the shopping cart.

Eren’s gaze softened, something deep and unshakable tightening in his chest. She was so small, so peaceful—completely unaware of the man staring at her like she already belonged to him.

“She’s adorable,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Probably keeps you up all hours, huh?”

You huffed a tired laugh. “You have no idea.”

Eren hummed, but his mind was already somewhere else—picturing a morning where he’d wake up next to you, your daughter climbing into bed between you both, babbling about something only a toddler could make sense of. The thought was dangerous, intoxicating.

You grabbed a carton of strawberries, setting them in the cart before glancing at him. “So, you cook?”

A small smirk tugged at his lips. “Yeah, I like to.”

"That's impressive. A man that looks like you and can cook? You're a rare breed.”

Eren chuckled, but his gaze darkened slightly. You had no idea just how rare he was. No idea that he wouldn’t let you find anyone else like him—because you were his, even if you didn’t know it yet.

"Well," he shrugged, "if you ever want a home-cooked meal, I’d be happy to make you something."

You hesitated, surprised by the offer. “Oh, that’s really sweet, but—”

“No pressure,” Eren cut in smoothly. “Just putting it out there.”

You chewed on your bottom lip before glancing at your sleeping daughter. The thought of a meal you didn’t have to cook yourself was tempting—almost too tempting. But you barely knew him.

Still, the idea of seeing him again made your stomach flutter.

"I'll think about it," you teased, throwing him a look.

His smirk widened slightly. "That’s all I ask."

It hadn't taken long for you to text Eren, agreeing to your date. Not that he was surprised. Now here he was, standing outside your apartment, gaze softening as he looked over you. His head slightly tilted, taking in the sight of you.

"You look beautiful." He watched as you bit your lip, trying to hide the smile on your face as you let him in.

His gaze swept across your apartment—not out of curiosity, but habit.

Eren hadn't waited that long before he was letting himself into your apartment.

Not that he would call it breaking and entering.

No, Eren simply needed to make sure you were safe, that you and your daughter had a good place to live.

That’s what he told himself as he moved through your home like it was his own.

He had touched everything. Gone through your drawers, flipped through your mail, opened your fridge just to see what you had stocked.

He’d smoothed his hands over the bedsheets you slept in, pressed his fingers against the lace underwear folded neatly in your dresser.

And as he went, he left little pieces of himself behind.

Tiny cameras, nestled so perfectly in the corners of your living room, your bedroom, your bathroom.

Little windows into your life, allowing him to watch you at any moment.

He snapped out of his memory as he watched you move across the room. His eyes caught sight of your daughter’s toys neatly stacked in a corner, the small pink blanket draped over the couch—her little world, nestled safely inside his.

He brought his attention back to you, holding up the bag of food.

“I cooked enough for all of us,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Your eyes widened slightly before they softened with something warm.

“You actually cooked? Thought we'd just order takeout.”

Eren smirked. “Of course. Have to keep up my first impressions.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you led him to the kitchen.

Dinner went smoothly—better than he had expected.

Your daughter adored him, just as he knew she would.

She clung to him quickly, her giggles filling the apartment as he played along with her little games, asking about her stuffed animals like they were old friends.

And you—

You watched him.

You watched the way he handled her with ease, the way he cut her food into tiny pieces without a second thought, the way he was patient, gentle, attentive.

Like he had always been meant to be here.

When bedtime rolled around, you kissed your daughter goodnight and tucked her in, leaving just the two of you in the dim glow of the living room.

The moment stretched.

Neither of you moved to fill it.

Eren leaned back into the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, his gaze locked on you.

Your lips parted slightly; his gaze darkened as he watched your tongue poke out and wet your lips. Fuck, it was taking everything in him but you surprised him, you kissed him first.

It was hesitant at first, uncertain, but Eren felt the moment your body melted into his, the moment hesitation turned into something deeper.

Something desperate.

He pulled you closer, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your top, brushing against your bare skin.

A sharp inhale left you, your hands fisting in his hoodie as his tongue flicked against yours, deepening the kiss.

You let out a soft, breathy moan—fuck.

He needed to hear it again.

He wanted to hear it on loop, playing through the hidden speakers of his mind while he watched you over and over and over—

But then, suddenly, you pulled back.

Your face flushed as your eyes darted anywhere but him.

Eren’s jaw clenched as he watched you force yourself to put space between you.

"I-I haven't had a date in a very long time and I don't wanna fuck it up.”

His voice was smooth, controlled. “You're not gonna fuck it up mama, promise.”

You swallowed still avoiding his gaze.

But he reached for you again, cupping your chin, tilting your face back toward him.

He kissed you—soft this time, slow and lingering, like he was sealing something in place.

“I’d love to take you out again.” He murmured against your lips

You let out a breathless laugh, odding. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And just like that, he had you.

Right where he wanted.

Eren had taken you out again, and each time, he could see how deep your affection for him had grown. It hadn’t even been a full month since you started dating, but he could already feel the way you leaned on him, the way you reached for him in subtle ways.

The goodnight texts. The way you never let too many hours pass without messaging him. How you let him drop you off and pick you up from work without protest now.

At first, you had hesitated when he offered to pick you up. He saw the uncertainty in your eyes, the way your lips parted as if you wanted to say something but weren’t sure how. You were scared—afraid to tell him what you actually did for a living.

As if he didn’t already know.

But when you finally admitted it, the relief on your face was instant. His answer had been simple, easy.

"I don’t care."

And from that night forward, the bouncers got used to his face.

Your daughter adored him too. It didn’t take long for her to start calling him “Daddy Eren,” and something primal settled deep inside of him the first time he heard it. He was already so intertwined in your life, but hearing it from her tiny mouth, seeing the way she clung to him when he dropped her off at daycare, the way she begged for bedtime stories whenever he was over—it solidified something in him.

He belonged here.

And you didn’t even realize just how permanent he had made himself.

The buzzing of his phone pulled him from his thoughts, and his eyes darkened when he saw the picture you’d sent him.

A short, tight purple dress clung to your body like a second skin, hugging every curve. Your blonde braids that matched your skin tone perfectly, framed your face, accentuating the pout on your full lips as you posed just right.

Can’t wait to see you.

Fuck.

Eren exhaled sharply through his nose, already hard beneath his jeans. You had been loosening up over the past few weeks, your touches lingering longer, your kisses more desperate. Heavy petting and long make-out sessions had left him on the verge of ruining himself more than once.

He palmed himself roughly, groaning lowly as he brought your panties to his nose.

He had been in your apartment for a while now—long enough that your scent surrounded him, sweet and intoxicating. It clung to your couch cushions, the blankets draped over the side of your bed. His fingers ghosted over your belongings like a lover’s touch, reverent and possessive.

He remembered the first time he found your underwear. Delicate lace. Soft cotton. Colors he knew contrasted beautifully against your warm, deep skin.

The first time he rubbed the fabric between his fingers, then against his cheek.

The first time he brought them to his nose, inhaling you—raw, intimate, intoxicating. It had sent a shiver down his spine, his body going taut with need.

Just like now.

He exhaled sharply, stuffing your panties into his pocket before pulling himself together. He had to pick you up soon.

The drive to the club was automatic, muscle memory. He was there before your shift had ended, already seated in his usual dark corner.

He nursed a drink he never touched, eyes locked onto you.

He loved watching you work—loved the slow, teasing roll of your hips, the way you commanded the stage. He loved watching men reach for you only to be swerved, their greedy hands left empty.

Until he showed up.

Older. Cocky. Entitled.

Eren saw it the second the man got too close. You were used to this, flashing a polite smile as you placed a gentle hand on his chest to keep your distance. But he didn’t get the hint. He leaned in too far, whispered something in your ear.

You tensed—just for a second—before stepping back with a laugh that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Eren knew that laugh.

It was the one you used when you were uncomfortable.

His vision went red.

By the time he realised he had moved, he was already following the man.

The alley was dark, secluded.

No one saw Eren slip in behind him.

No one heard the struggle, the way the man choked on his own screams as Eren’s fingers crushed his throat, stealing the breath from his lungs.

No one noticed when he left the alleyway alone.

And when he returned, you were just finishing up, completely unaware that the man who had made you uncomfortable would never be coming back.

You smiled when you saw him, instantly walking into his arms. His place. Where you belonged.

“Hey, baby,” you murmured, voice sweet and warm, completely oblivious to the blood still drying beneath his nails. “Ready to go?”

Eren pressed a kiss to the top of your head, inhaling deeply, his fingers flexing around your waist.

“Always.”

Eren watched as you entered your apartment, he hadn't seen you in a couple of days. You had to spend the weekend with your mum and it was driving him nuts that he didn't have a visual on you.

Well, you did FaceTime and text him many times but he missed watching you move naturally.

But now his skin came alive as you entered the apartment. He remembers you telling him that you were gonna drop your daughter off at daycare before coming home.

The camera feed followed your every step as you dropped your bag by the door and headed straight for the fridge. Probably thirsty from the drive back. You sighed when you pulled open a stack of mail—bills, most likely. His jaw clenched at the thought. He had more than enough to take care of you. It was only a matter of time before he convinced you to let him.

The cameras shifted as you made your way to your bedroom, you phone steady in your palm but the minute you opened your bedroom door you froze.

His brows furrowed as he watched the stillness of your body. Your hands begin to shake as you fumble with your phone and run back into the living room.

Eren felt the buzz of his phone, his eyes darting to the caller before he shifted back to his computer.

“Hey, baby,” he greeted smoothly, as if he wasn’t watching you.

“Eren.” Your voice was shaky, laced with fear. “I—I just got home, and my bedroom window was open.”

His grip tightened around his phone. He knew you closed your windows when you weren't home, and he forgot to close it last night after he left.

“Are you sure you didn’t just forget to close it?” He kept his tone even, already anticipating your response.

“No, I know I locked it, I always lock it when I'm not home.” You insisted. “I’m freaking out. What if someone was in here? What if—”

“Hey, hey,” he interrupted, his voice turning soothing. “It’s okay. I’m coming over right now.”

You exhaled, the sound of relief evident through the phone. “I just… I need you Ren."

He could feel the blood in his ears, the softness of your voice went straight to his cock. He continued to speak to you, his car keys rattling in his hands as he raced to his car.

He could hear the way your breathing elevated; he could now hear the busyness of your street, knowing you stepped outside rather than to wait inside with a possible 'intruder'.

The moment he pulled up outside your apartment, his eyes immediately found you. You stood just outside the entrance, arms wrapped around you, shifting anxiously on your feet. The sight made something dark and possessive coil in his chest.

He stepped out of the car, and the second your eyes met his, you hurried over. Without a word, you buried yourself in his arms, clutching at his hoodie like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Eren exhaled slowly, wrapping himself around you, his hand smoothing over the curve of your back. “I’m here,” he murmured, kissing your hair. “You’re okay.”

You nodded against his chest, but your grip didn’t loosen. “I just… I couldn’t sit in there alone.”

His heart hammered, his lips twitching into the smallest smirk over your head.

“Let’s go inside,” he said, guiding you toward the door. “I’ll check everything.”

You didn’t let go of him as he unlocked the door, staying close behind as he stepped inside first. He moved through your apartment with careful ease, playing the part of the protective boyfriend while discreetly checking for his own mistakes.

The cameras were still perfectly hidden. The small traces he’d left—your underwear he had pocketed, the slight shift in your blankets—none of it was noticeable. But the window. That was his only slip-up. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Eren double-checked every lock, every window, making a show of it just for you. He even peeked into your closet, your bathroom, anywhere an intruder might be hiding.

Finally, he turned to you, his expression soft, reassuring. “All clear, baby,” he murmured, brushing his fingers along your arm. “No one’s here.”

Your shoulders sagged with relief, your lips parting as you took a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

He could still see the uncertainty in your eyes; he didn't even have to say much, his hands steady against your waist as he eased you down. You were still trembling slightly, fingers toying with the hem of your shirt as you tried to steady your breathing

“I feel so stupid,” you murmured, as the movie continued “I probably overreacted. It was just a window, and nothing’s missing. I just—”

Eren turned to you, his hands palming the side of your face as he cut off your self-doubt with a firm look. “Don’t do that,” he said, voice low, unwavering. “You were scared. You did the right thing calling me.”

Your lips pressed together, eyes flickering with uncertainty. “Yeah, but—”

“No ‘but,’” he interrupted smoothly, his hands finding yours, thumbs brushing along your knuckles. “If you ever feel unsafe, you call me. Always. I don’t care what time it is, where I am—I’ll be here whenever you need me.”

Your breath hitched, your fingers tightening around his instinctively. He meant it. You could see it in the way he looked at you, the way he held you, the way he always showed up.

You leaned forward before you could second-guess yourself, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against his lips. Eren inhaled sharply, but he didn’t hesitate—his hands cupped your face instantly, deepening the kiss as his thumbs stroked your cheeks.

Your body relaxed against him, the fear from earlier melting away as warmth spread through you. Eren’s lips were slow, deliberate, savoring every second of your mouth against his.

But then you shifted, your legs parting slightly, and he felt the heat of your body through your shorts. A low, quiet groan rumbled from his throat, and his grip tightened, fingers sliding to the back of your neck.

The kiss grew heavier, needier, his tongue slipping past your lips as he guided you back against the couch. His body hovered over yours, one hand gripping the back of the couch while the other ghosted down your thigh.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against your lips, voice strained, heated.

But you didn’t. Instead, your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him back down, pressing your body flush against his.

Eren’s lips trailed down your jaw, hot and eager, teeth grazing your pulse as his hands found the hem of your shirt. His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, palms sliding against your soft skin as he pushed it higher—exposing more of you.

His breath was heavy against your neck, his body tensed with restraint. “You have no idea how much I missed you,” he murmured, voice thick with need.

His words sent a shiver down your spine, heat pooling between your thighs as his hands wandered higher, you bit your lip, arching into his touch.

“Then touch me,” you whispered.

Eren growled low in his throat, his patience snapping as his hands gripped your thighs, parting them effortlessly. His mouth found yours again, lips hungry, desperate, as he settled between your legs.

His hands slipped under your shirt fully, his rough palms skimming up the smooth skin of your stomach. He pushed the fabric higher, stopping just below your chest, his lips never leaving yours as he swallowed every soft sound you made.

You gasped when his fingers traced the underside of your breasts, his touch slow, teasing—driving you insane.

“Eren,” you breathed, impatience seeping into your voice.

He pulled back slightly, his green eyes dark with want as they flickered down to your parted lips, your heaving chest, the way your thighs instinctively clenched around his hips. His restraint was hanging by a thread.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he murmured, his voice rough as his hands squeezed your waist, thumbs stroking your skin like he was trying to memorize every inch of you.

You shivered, arching into his touch. “Then show me.”

He surged forward, lips claiming yours in a kiss that was all hunger, all need. His hands finally moved, pushing your shirt up and over your head, tossing it to the floor without a second thought.

His breath hitched when he took you in, eyes raking over your bare skin like he was committing the sight to memory. “Fuck,” he muttered, his hands finding your thighs again, parting them wider as he pressed his hips against yours.

You felt all of him. Hard, heavy, and straining against his jeans. The friction sent a spark of heat up your spine, and you let out a soft whimper that made Eren curse under his breath.

“Mama,” he growled, leaning down to press hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. He nipped at your skin, his tongue soothing over every mark, his hands gripping your waist like he was trying to ground himself.

His mouth traveled lower, over the curve of your breasts, his hands slipping beneath the band of your shorts. His fingers toyed with the fabric.

You squirmed beneath him. “Eren, please,” you whispered, your nails digging into his shoulders.

Eren let out a strained chuckle, his breath hot against your skin as he murmured, “So impatient.” But he was just as desperate. His hands yanked down your shorts in one swift motion, leaving you bare beneath him.

His eyes darkened, his tongue swiping over his lips as he took you in. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned, his fingers tracing the inside of your thigh. “You’re so beautiful.”

You whimpered, heat pooling in your stomach as he spread your legs wider, his body shifting lower.

“Let me taste you,” he rasped, his breath ghosting over your most sensitive spot. “I need to taste you.”

Before you could respond, his mouth was on you, and all coherent thoughts disappeared.

Eren groaned the moment his tongue made contact with you, his hands gripping your thighs as he pinned you down. His movements were slow at first—lazy, almost—like he had all the time in the world to savor you. He licked a long, teasing stripe before closing his lips around your clit, sucking softly.

Your back arched, a strangled moan slipping past your lips. “Eren—”

“Shh, baby,” he murmured against you, his voice thick with hunger. “Let me make you feel good.”

He dived back in, his tongue flicking and circling, alternating between soft licks and firm pressure. His fingers dug into your thighs, spreading you wider as he feasted on you like a man starved.

You were already trembling, your body reacting to him so quickly, so easily.

Eren moaned against you, the vibration sending a shock of pleasure up your spine. “So sweet,” he groaned, his tongue delving deeper. “So fucking perfect.”

Your hands found his hair, tugging at the strands as pleasure built inside you. “Eren—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he urged, his voice breathless, desperate. “Cum for me, baby.”

With one last flick of his tongue, you shattered. Your body arched off the couch, pleasure ripping through you as he kept going, licking and sucking you through your orgasm.

Only when your thighs trembled and your breathing came out in shaky gasps did he finally pull away. His lips were slick, his chin wet, and the look in his eyes was pure, unfiltered lust.

“Fuck,” he breathed, running his hands up your thighs before gripping your waist. “I need to be inside you.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was on you again, pressing his lips to yours. You could taste yourself on his tongue, but you didn’t care—all you wanted was him.

Eren wasted no time, undoing his jeans with one hand while the other gripped your hip. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze dark, burning. “Tell me you want this,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Tell me you need me.”

Your heart pounded, heat pooling between your legs again as you whispered, “I need you, Eren.”

It felt like those were the words he had waited his whole life to hear.

In one swift motion, he was inside you, stretching you, filling you completely. A guttural groan left his lips as he buried himself to the hilt, his fingers tightening around your hips.

“Fuck,” he growled, his head dropping to your shoulder as he fought to keep himself together. “You feel so good.”

You whimpered, your nails digging into his back as you adjusted to the stretch. He was thick, heavy inside you, the perfect fit.

Eren pulled back just slightly before thrusting forward again, setting a slow but deep rhythm that had you gasping. His hands roamed your body, he could feel the ways your walls clenched around his cock.

Fuck. You pussy made the prettiest sounds.

He leaned down, pressing his lips to your ear. “You’re mine,” he whispered, his voice dripping with possession. “You belong to me.”

You could only moan in response, lost in the way he was making you feel.

Eren smirked, his pace picking up. “Say it,” he demanded, his thrusts becoming rougher, more desperate. “Say you’re mine.”

Your body was on fire, the pleasure overwhelming as you gasped, “I’m yours, Eren. I’m all yours.”

A dark, satisfied groan left his lips as he grabbed your thighs, pushing them up so he could fuck you deeper, harder.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his lips trailing down your neck, his thrusts relentless. “Now let’s see how many times I can make you cum tonight.”

Eren didn't slow down, not even when your legs started trembling around him, not even when you whimpered from overstimulation. If anything, it only spurred him on.

"You can take it," he murmured, his voice low and possessive. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding them up so he could fuck into you even deeper. "You're my good girl, aren't you?"

You nodded frantically, your nails clawing at his back as another wave of pleasure built inside you. He was relentless, thrusting into you with deep, precise strokes that made your head spin.

"Eren—fuck, I'm—"

"I know, baby," he groaned, his lips brushing against your ear. "Cum for me again. Let me feel it."

His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight, desperate circles that sent you over the edge instantly. Your whole body tensed, back arching as a loud, broken moan ripped from your throat. The pleasure was blinding, overwhelming, leaving you trembling beneath him.

Eren cursed under his breath, watching the way your body tightened around him, how your slick coated his length. "Fuck, you're squeezing me so tight," he gritted out, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he picked up the pace again.

You barely had time to come down from your high before he was flipping you over onto your stomach. A gasp left your lips as he pressed his body against yours, his breath hot against your neck.

One of his hands slid under your stomach, lifting your hips so you were on your knees, your cheek pressed against the couch. Then, without warning, he slid back inside you, dragging a long, needy moan from your lips.

"Fuck, you feel even better like this," he groaned, his fingers digging into your hips. He pulled back slowly before snapping his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you again.

Your hands scrambled against the cushions, your breath coming out in short, desperate pants. "Eren—oh my God—"

"Shh," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the back of your shoulder. "Just take it, baby. Let me make you feel good."

His pace was rougher now, more desperate. Your moans became louder as his cock kept hitting that spongy spot in your cervix. He was chasing his own release, groaning he looked down noticing how your ass bounced back against him.

He needed you to fall apart one more time before he let himself go. His hand slipped between your legs, his fingers finding your swollen clit again.

"You gonna give me one more?" he asked, his voice dark with lust. "I know you can."

You whimpered, to drunk on his cock to even remember nodding helplessly as his fingers worked you, his cock hitting deep, perfect spots inside you. The pleasure was too much—your body was shaking, your mind foggy, completely lost in him.

"That's it," Eren gritted out, feeling you tighten around him again. "Fuck, baby, you’re gonna make me cum—"

His hips faltered, and you felt him twitch inside you, his breath hot against your back. "Where do you want it?" he asked, voice strained. "Tell me where I can come, baby."

You barely had to think. "Inside," you gasped, your fingers tightening against the couch cushions. "I'm on birth control—just fill me up."

Eren’s movements stilled for half a second before he let out a dark, satisfied hum. His lips curled into a smirk against your shoulder.

Birth control? He let out a dark chuckle, finding it cute that you hadn't even realised the changes in your little white pills.

Something primal stirred inside him at the thought. You were his, and soon, you’d be swollen with his child, tied to him in the most permanent way possible. He had no intention of letting you go—not now, not ever.

"Good girl," he rasped, his grip on your hips tightening. "Gonna take all of it for me, huh?"

You moaned in response, pushing back against him, and that was all he needed.

The moment you came, Eren followed, a deep, guttural groan leaving his lips as he buried himself inside you one last time. He spilled inside you with a shudder, his hands gripping your waist so tight you were sure there’d be marks.

For a few moments, the only sound in the room was your heavy breathing, the soft hum of the city outside.

Eren pressed a lazy kiss to your shoulder, his arms wrapping around you as he slowly lowered both of you onto the couch. His body was heavy against yours, warm and solid, but you didn’t mind. You liked the weight of him, the way he held you like he never wanted to let go.

"You okay?" he murmured against your skin.

You let out a small, breathless laugh. "I think you broke me."

Eren smirked, nuzzling into your neck. "Good. That way, you'll always remember who you belong to."

You rolled your eyes, but the way your heart fluttered told you that maybe you liked hearing that a little too much.

Eren didn’t move for a while, keeping you wrapped in his arms, his fingers tracing lazy circles against your skin.

Then, after a long moment of comfortable silence, he murmured, “Move in with me.”

Your breath hitched, your body going still beneath him. "What?"

Eren lifted his head, his green eyes intense as they met yours. "Move in with me," he repeated, his voice soft but firm. "I don’t want you here alone. I don’t want you struggling with bills. I want you two with me."

Your lips parted, but no words came out. The intensity in his gaze sent a shiver down your spine.

Eren leaned in, brushing a kiss against your lips, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Say yes."

He didn't even need an actual response; he could see it in your eyes, feel the way your body softened into him. You would say yes, because you were his. Entirely.

𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘮𝘦, 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘢𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 ©

at your service • e. jaeger

synopsis: after an injury, your husband is more than happy to care for you.

content warning: influencer reader, super cute fluff, eren giving (y/n) princess treatment, mentions of bodily harm and injury, slight angst, tiny mentions of sex, casual dominance

📝: just some cute fluff with our favorite rapper because I need the comfort today and I couldn’t stop thinking about domestic musician eren. 🥹 he just does sum to me.

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“Is that right? Well, that’s unfortunate but I really don’t give a damn. My wife is hurt and there’s no way I’m leaving her side. Find somebody else.”

(Y/N) could hear the intense conversation transpiring between your husband and whoever was on the other line out of earshot. As per, Eren was being his irate self. Blowing off a performance that he just wasn’t interested in doing. He had been contacted by the directors of the University of Miami in hopes of getting him to headline at their annual homecoming festival. Which always featured some of the biggest stars. Granted, he might have taken the gig if he were bored enough and had absolutely nothing else to do but he couldn’t be vexed. Especially when his precious baby was lying in bed, leg elevated on a stack of pillows and wrapped in a cast. Your arm? Bandaged up and damaged from the result of a nasty fall during a routine at a concert. Somehow, the stage crew forgot to bolt your pole to the floor correctly and as you went for your solo, it went crashing and carried you with it! An eight foot drop that was more painful than anything you had ever felt: The footage went viral, as did many things you did nowadays and everyone was terrified for you. You let everyone know you were fine but would be out of commission for a while…as you had experienced two hairline fractures and a bruised rib. Needless to say, Eren was livid and after rushing to the hospital to ensure you were okay, he rushed to the venue to find the people responsible. Raising hell that no one was ready for.

for now, you were stuck recovering at home while your girls finished out the remainder of the tour without you. It was a bummer and your spirits were a bit crushed…

“Go ahead, I’m still not coming. So you can tell the college, AMG and whoever else to kiss my ass. (Y/N) is the only person I’m leaving this house for. Ask me again and I’ll quit right now. Don’t call me for shit else. Goodbye.”

luckily, you had the most handsome nurse on the planet to care for you! EJ hadn’t even so much as thought of a studio or anyone else. Staying by your bedside, waiting on you hand and foot once you returned from the hospital. He had just finished up his call and headed straight back to check on you. “Hey princess…how are you feeling? In any pain or anything? Something I can get you?” His sweet words followed by a gentle hand caressing the side of your face, followed by a kiss to the forehead. He knelt down beside you, swiping his thumb over your hand. Even in this state, he glared at you as if you were the most beautiful thing in the world. Currently, you were tucked into bed, surrounded by plushies, games, flowers, books and all things synonymous with a get well soon package. He had spent hundreds, if not thousands in a matter of days on beautiful bouquets and gifts to brighten your mood. He wanted to ensure that you didn’t go stir crazy or get FOMO while you were home so he ensured that your girls got to chat with you every day on FaceTime, watching them practice which made you feel better. Knowing they’d do everything in their power to make it the best show possible in your absence. Your fans poured into your DM’s and mentions, wishing you well and showing their love with edits of their favorite influencer and dancer. And you even made sure to hop on live when the pain medication wasn’t taking its toll. Even you guys’ housekeepers were working later just to ensure the lady of the estate had all she needed. A testament to your character and how well you both had treated them. Something many celebrities failed to do. It felt good to know that you were so adored. Turning your head to face your sweetheart, you’d run a hand underneath his chin and return his peck. The concern on his face was taking its toll and you had to remind him that you were just fine!

“I’m okayyyy, my love. I’m more worried about you. Have you even slept? And did you just cancel ANOTHER gig?”

a question he truly did not want to answer out of fear of you getting upset. Because truth was, he hadn’t been able to sleep much knowing that his princess was in pain. Hearing you wince from a cough that caused your rib to hurt or when your casts began to itch and couldn’t be touched. He couldn’t stand it..more so, he couldn’t stomach the thought of what could’ve been? What if you were in the midst of one of your more insane stunts? Ones where you were twenty feet in the air, dropping at insane speed to match the artist’s rhythm..only God knows how that would’ve ended. But even so, he was still going to do everything in his power to ensure your comfortability. Regardless of if it were at the cost of his own rest or reputation. All of his projects were on hold for further notice, his performances postponed and a meet and greet put on the back burner. A small sacrifice for his sweetheart he’d make any day. And he didn’t care who didn’t like it..

“Me? I’m good! I had a nap on the couch earlier so I’m straight. You though? You need to eat. When you’re done, I’ll help you get a bath and I can do your hair for you..I picked up some of that oil for your braids that you use. Your stylist told me everything to get.”

so typical of him..going above and beyond to make sure that everyone of your needs were met. Not changing word, not getting frustrated or angry once. Planning things out and thinking ahead so you didn’t have to. Almost as if he were glad to do it. He made your life so much easier and honestly, you couldn’t wait to get better so that you could pounce on him and thank your husband for all his hard work. You had heard and experienced first hand the horror stories of women getting left by their spouses when they’re sick or hurt. How calloused men could be. Your own ex would avoid you like the plague when you so much as got a common cold! So this was new to you but much more inviting. Thinking about it sometimes made you want to tear up..which was inevitable at this point.

eren would soon turn his head amid his prideful rant, feeling accomplished in doing something right to find your eyes welling up. “Wait, did I say something wrong?! I’m sorry if I—“ to which you’d halt with a laugh afterwards. “No..not at all. It’s just that..I’ve never had anyone be this nice to me before I met you. I’m thankful, ‘s all. I’m so sorry for burdening you with all of this.” To which, you’d find yourself immediately thrusted into a hug and a kiss to follow. Cupping a palm around your cheek, Eren delicately brushed away those tears and kept you in his grasp. “Stop it..that’s my job, princess. To make sure that you’re always taken care of. You’re the most precious thing in my life and the best to ever happen to me. I’d do anything to keep a smile on that pretty face of yours. I love you, (y/n) and I’d do this a million times over. So please, don’t ever apologize.” You had never seen such sincerity in his face. ‘Though sickness and health’ wasn’t just some empty vow for him. He meant every word and he was going to fulfill his promise of loving you unconditionally until hr drew his last breath. You were his entire world and nothing..not even a broken leg could change that. He didn’t love you any less because of it. “..Oh..Eren. I love you so much..” “I’m serious, princess. Don’t ever forget that. I love you more.” The two of you would seal your declaration with a deep kiss and do away with any sad thoughts. Hopping up immediately after, he’d return to his normally silly self and head off towards the bathroom. “Now that that’s settled, I’ll be right back. Don’t you go anywhere.” Having to get at least one joke off on you. Which prompted you to smack your lips and giggle. “Where are you going anyways?” “To get the nail polish and face masks. My gorgeous girl deserves to be spoiled.” That and the fact that he thoroughly enjoyed doing it too. You were certain he’d have no problem getting comfortable with tending to all of your beauty needs in absence of your normal routine. Shaking your head, you merely chuckle.

“You know, I’m starting think you’re having far too much fun with this.”

which was fine, because he was happy to be at your service.