‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀𝓸𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓯𝓲𝓵𝓶𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓰……‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀
pleaser. eren.
𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count—11.4K, southern domestic family vibes!, dad!eren, husband!erenyeager, shyblack!femreader, blackwife!reader, lumberjack!eren, southerncoded!femreader, southerncoded!eren, aggressive!eren, dominant!eren, gruff!eren, sweet!eren, size kink!, pet names!baby!, cabin!sex, pussy eating!, face slapping!, slightly aggressive sex!, squirting!, creaming, condomless sex, family drama!, minors aren’t welcome! 𓊇ྀི
メモ。— hey, i was missin’ my country boy eren. i know you did too. love you guys. enjoy.
YOU ENJOYED BEING A MOMMY.
Maybe it started from the beginning—watching your belly swell up from below, knowing the life growing inside you would alter your entire brain chemistry. Late nights, the hushing of cries, to the giggles as you blew raspberries on miniature toes. Or maybe it was at this very moment—six years later, those little toes now standing barefoot in the middle of your plush carpet tugging on a hello kitty plushie, thumb in mouth as round eyes fixated on Gracie’s Corner flashing against the screen.
Everything was perfect.
That’s what you’d tell yourself every morning—muscled arm draped over your waist, your body curled into him like you were scared he’d vanish if you let go. Seven years of marriage, a daughter with your curls and his sharp stare, a farmhouse tucked deep in Baton Rouge’s countryside where the cicadas sang louder than the radio. A life he built for you—for all of you—with his own two hands.
But it hadn’t started there.
It started in that godforsaken hardware store you worked at part time—some tiny, dust choked place with warped floorboards and fluorescent lights that buzzed like pissed off hornets. You were always tucked behind the counter, all curves and those big brown eyes that flicked away every time his shadow darkened the doorway. He’d loom over you, smelling like pine resin and sweat, dropping nails or saw blades on the counter just to hear you stutter through the total.
“You gonna’ look at me when you talk?”
You’d huff, but he caught the way your cheeks warmed. Learned quickly that beneath all that shyness was a woman who’d argue with him about the difference between Phillips head and flathead screws just to prove a point.
So he came back every day.
Found out you hated the texture of raw lumber—“It’s too splintery," you’d whine, scrunching your nose—but loved the smell of it after it was sanded down. Learned you hummed old Anita Baker songs under your breath when you thought no one was listening. That you bit your lip when you were concentrating, left little love notes in his lunchbox when he was in vocational school, and that your fingers fit perfect between the gaps of his own calloused ones.
Then came the farmhouse. The way your face lit up when he showed you the deed, how you squealed like a kid when you saw the porch swing he’d built just for you. The nights spent tangled up in sheets, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. The first time he held your baby girl, his life changed for the better.
But you—you never changed.
That was the thing that struck him most—how after all these years, you were still you. Still soft spoken, still sweet, still smelling like bourbon and vanilla even when you hadn’t touched a drop of liquor, something about your skin just carrying warmth like honey in sunlight. Still folding his socks into neat little bundles even though he’d toss them into the drawer anyway. Still humming Anita Baker under your breath while you stirred pots of gumbo, hips swaying slow to a rhythm only you could hear.
Opposites. That’s what people said when they saw you together—his towering, rough edged frame next to your smaller one, his growl against your honeyed giggles, his tattoos stark against your bare, freckled skin. But that was exactly why it worked. He needed your softness the way the earth needed rain—something to gentle the edges of him, something to remind him that tenderness wasn’t weakness. And you? You needed his steady hands, his sharp mind, the way he’d press you into the mattress and remind you that submission wasn’t surrender.
And now? This.
A rhythm, a life. Him coming home smelling of sawdust and sweat, peeling off his flannel to wash up before pressing a kiss to baby girl’s curls while she practiced her letters at the kitchen table. You in your little cotton dresses, barefoot on the hardwood, grading homeschool worksheets with one hand and stirring a pot with the other. Nights spent with your daughter tucked between you both as y’all read stories, her tiny fingers tracing the words as you sounded them out.
It was enough—for the most part.
Because every family had its cracks—little fractures in the foundation, and yours was coming in fast.
Here you are, humming again. That soft, wordless tune under your breath as you tuck the last dish into the glass cabinet—careful fingers settling porcelain into place like you’re handling something sacred. The late afternoon sun slants through the curtains, catching the gold in your tiny hoops, the curve of your neck as you glance over your shoulder.
“Isla.”
Your voice comes out slow, Creole curling warm around some syllables—“Back up from the TV, bébé. Sit yourself on the sofa ’fore you hurt those pretty eyes."
And there she is—your baby, his baby—all wild curls and big green eyes too sharp for a six year old. She pouts, just a little, bottom lip jutting out like she’s considering rebellion, but then she’s shuffling backward, bare feet whispering against the hardwood.
“Sorry, Momma,” she mumbles, and your heart clenches.
She’s a perfect blend of you both—your freckles dusting her golden brown cheeks, his sharp brows framing those deep-set eyes. Even the way she folds her hands in her lap is him, all quiet stubbornness wrapped up in softness.
You can’t help it. You smile, “You want a snack, ’Lala?”
Her face lights up like you’ve offered her the moon.
That silky cream scarf of yours—the one you'd knotted into a makeshift top—clings just so around the full swell of your full breasts, the ends tucked neatly between where your cleavage dips. Your deep red skirt hugs your hips like it's jealous of them, swaying with every little shift as you pad barefoot across the kitchen tiles.
You catch the clock's hands in your periphery—nearly eight—but it's fall, and rules bend like willow branches this time of year.
The knife in your hand moves in smooth, practiced arcs—chop, chop, chop—slicing strawberries into fat little hearts before nudging them toward a small plate already dotted with cubes of melon and a drizzle of honey.
“Do you want a snack 'cause Momma asked..." your voice lilts, teasing, as you glance down at Isla's dark curls bobbing near the counter's edge, “…Or you still hungry from dinner?"
She's stretching onto tiptoes now, chin propped on the counter as she peers at your handiwork. You watch her nose scrunch, considering, before she finally shrugs.
"Chicken sausage gumbo wasn’t enough for you?"
Isla grins, all baby teeth and mischief—“I got a big belly like Daddy."
You hand her the plate with a sigh, “Yeah, baby... you do."
Speaking of, that telltale roar of his truck cuts through the evening quiet, engine growling like a pissed off beast as he barrels down the gravel road like the devil himself is on his tail. You don’t even have to glance out the window to know he’s kicking up dust, tires spitting gravel.
Your eyes roll skyward as Isla bolts from her chair before you can blink, her little feet slapping against the hardwood in her rush to the door. You turn the opposite way, hands dipping into the soapy water—one last dish, just to keep busy—but you feel it the second the front door swings open.
Him.
Loud. Heavy. Gruff. His keys hit the wooden TV stand with a clatter, his boots thudding against the floorboards like he’s trying to announce his presence to the whole damn parish.
And God, is he a sight.
That lumberjack uniform clings to every thick line of him—flannel sleeves rolled up past his elbows, revealing arms sleeved in ink, fingers decorated with blackwork that disappears under his cuffs. His dark brows are furrowed, but his bandana’s shoved back now, hair pulled into a low messy bun that only sharpens the angles of his face.
“Daddy!” Isla squeals, arms already reaching.
“Hey, little mouse.”
His voice rumbles, swooping her up like she weighs nothing, pressing a noisy kiss to her cheek that sends her into a fit of giggles. His voice drops, German rough but warm as he murmurs something—“Hast du deine Mama heute gut geholfen?"
Did you help your mom well today?
Isla nods, giggling again before she smacks a wet kiss to his own cheek.
And then, his eyes find you.
You keep your back to him, hands buried in suds, but you feel his stare like a brand. The second Isla’s feet hit the floor, he’s crossing the room in three strides, and before you can feign ignorance, his palm cracks against your ass—hard.
Your breath hitches, eyes flying wide as you twist to glare at him, but his arms cage you in before you can scold him properly. All you can huff is, “‘Ren.”
That deep, rough grunt vibrates against your back as his arms tighten around your waist—“Actin’ like you didn’t hear me come inside."
You tilt your head just enough to catch his gaze over your shoulder, voice soft but laced with warning—“I told you about driving fast. I can hear you all the way from Metairie."
His smirk is downright sinful—“That’s how you know your man’s home, baby.”
You sigh—exasperated—but your body betrays you, melting back against his chest like you’re drawn to him by some invisible force. Your fingers curl into the damp fabric of his flannel as you murmur, “…Missed you today."
He hums, lips brushing the sensitive spot behind your ear—“I’m knowin’. That’s why you’re mad."
Mad? Maybe a little. But mostly just hungry—for him, for his touch, for the way his presence fills up every hollow space in this house.
You turn fully in his arms now, hands lifting to cradle his jaw as you drink him in. Olive skin kissed by the sun, his bandana pulling his hair back in a way that should be practical but just makes him look dangerous. The tattoos creeping up his neck peek from beneath his collar, ink stark against warm skin, and you can’t help tracing one with your thumb.
“‘'M not mad," you whisper, gaze flicking back up to meet his—“…Just wonderin’ why you came home so late."
His eyes—dark green, almost predatory—drag over your face like he’s memorizing every detail. The way your deep brown skin glows under the kitchen light, the smattering of freckles across your nose, the fullness of your lips. The deep rumble of his apology rolls off his tongue in German first—“Es tut mir leid, Schatz,” I’m sorry, darling—before shifting to English, his voice rough like gravel under tires.
“Work almost had me cuttin’ down that old oak near Magnolia Creek. The city’s project."
Your frown is instant, lips parting in disbelief—“What? They can’t do that. That tree’s been there longer than my granddaddy.”
Eren huffs, peeling away from you just enough to tug the bandana from his head. His dark hair spills loose before he’s twisting the bandana playfully around Isla’s tiny fists, then tying it over her curls like a makeshift crown. She giggles, mouth full of honey-drizzled fruit, and you can’t help but shake your head.
“You’ve been sweatin’ all over that, ‘Ren. C’mon.”
He ignores you—just grins—and taps Isla’s nose, “What’d you do to Momma today, huh? She’s extra fussy."
Isla giggles again, and you watch as Eren finally relents, plucking the bandana back. He sighs, running a hand through his hair as he turns back to you.
“‘City wants a new park or some shit. Tried to refuse, but—" he shrugs, jaw tight, “Contract’s a contract."
The resignation in his voice doesn’t match the fire in his eyes. You know that look—he hated every second of it.
“What does the city have to say for the story behind that tree?"
Your arms cross over your chest, fingers gripping your own biceps just to keep from shaking—“The bodies that hung from it? The reminder of what this South was before folks decided they wanted to pretty it up?"
“Me and a few others signed off on a vote before the city moved forward."
His hand lifts, calloused fingers brushing your cheekbone like he’s trying to soften the weight of his words—“Can’t cut a tree in the South without askin’, baby. Even then—“
You lean into him before he can finish, pressing your temple against his lips. His kiss is rough, warm—an apology without words.
“You got fire in you," he murmurs against your skin, voice dripping honey despite the gravel in it.
“That’s why I love your ass."
You sigh—weak for him, always—before tilting your face up. His mouth crashes into yours before you can speak, tongue sliding against yours with a filthy, possessive swirl that curls your toes against the kitchen tiles.Your face burns when he pulls back, lips still tingling from his kiss. That familiar shyness steals your words—a quiet that Eren already knows too well. He reads it in the dip of your lashes, the way your fingers fidget at your sides. With a low grunt, he lets you be—stepping away before the silence can suffocate you both.
He moves to the table, his heavy frame settling next to Isla with a creak of the wooden chair.
“Does Daddy get a bowl of gumbo?” he rumbles, flexing his forearm as he props it on the table, “Or is Momma still fussy?"
You’re already pulling out a bowl—rolling your eyes as you murmur, “Hush, boy."
His grin shifts to Isla, broad and warm—“What’d you learn today, mouse?"
Isla perks up immediately. Her small hands pushed her notebook across the table—“I drew pictures!" she announces, her excitement bubbling over as she points to crayon scribbles of trees, a house, and three stick figures—undoubtedly your little family.
Eren hums, flipping through the pages with rough fingers. Then, softer, he murmurs, “Sag mir was auf Deutsch."
Tell me something in German.
Isla puffs her cheeks, concentrating hard before stumbling through, “Ich... liebe... Mama und... und Papa!"
Her pronunciation is messy, syllables slurred together—adorably imperfect. She giggles at herself before declaring, “Momma’s German isn’t as good as yours, Daddy!"
"Ain’t nobody’s as good as mine.”
You slide the steaming bowl of gumbo in front of him with a smirk, leaning down just enough to whisper—"Küss meinen Arsch."
Kiss my ass.
Then, louder—“Sound about right?"
Isla’s little gasp turns into a burst of giggles—she might butcher German verbs, but she knows a bad word when she hears one.
Eren’s hand cracks against your ass in warning—not hard, just enough to make you jump—before he growls, “Say somethin’ our daughter wouldn’t recognize."
You bite your lip to hide a laugh, nudging Isla gently—“Tell Daddy what you learned about his job today, baby."
“Lumberjacks gotta know ‘bout tree types,” she announces, pointing to a crooked drawing of an oak, “An’ how to cut ‘em so they don’t fall on houses, an’—an’ you wear special boots so chainsaws don’t chop your toes off!"
Eren’s chuckle is rich, proud.
“Daddy’s job is hard, mouse," he admits, ruffling her curls—“But I’m glad you’re interested in it."
Then, like the damn animal he is, he attacks the gumbo—shoveling spoonfuls into his mouth with zero grace, broth dripping down his chin as he eats like he’s been starved for weeks.
You and Isla ignore him, turning back to her book—a worn copy of Where the Wild Things Are—finishing the last page as Eren’s slurping fills the kitchen.
Home. That’s exactly what this was.
The quiet hum of the evening settles around you as you fold laundry—freshly dried cotton still warm between your fingers. The scent of detergent lingers in the air, mingling with the faint trace of bourbon still clinging to your skin.
Your gaze drifts to the kitchen, where Isla—tiny hands gripping a damp bowl—passes it up to Eren. He takes it without looking, his focus locked on wiping down the counter. His arms flex with each swipe, thick veins rising beneath ink-stained skin, tendons pulling taut as he works. Tendrils of dark hair have escaped his low bun, curling against the dampness at his nape.
Lord.
Eren’s voice slices through the quiet, rough with amusement—“You keep lookin’ like that, Mommy and Daddy may need some play time.”
A soft giggle escapes you—“Eren.”
He doesn’t glance up, just keeps scrubbing at an invisible spot on the counter. But his next words are deliberate, low—“Isla, go wash up for bed.”
From your spot on the couch, you catch the shift in Isla’s face—her nose scrunching, brows knitting together in a way that’s all him. It’s the same look Eren wears when he’s biting back irritation, when patience wears thin but he’s trying not to snap.
Your fingers pause mid-fold as Isla plants her feet, chin jutting out in defiance—“‘M not ready to go to bed, Daddy.”
Eren still doesn’t turn. Just keeps methodically wiping down the counter, his voice calm but edged with steel—“‘Didn’t ask what you wanted to do, mouse. It’s nearly ten. You’re past what time you usually lay down.”
A foot stomp. Once, Twice. Uh oh.
“I’m not—“
That’s when he pivots, looming over her with that look—the one that makes grown men second-guess their life choices. His gaze flicks to you, one brow arched—“You hearin’ her?”
You press your lips together, suddenly very invested in smoothing out a wrinkled sleeve—“Mhm.”
Eren’s nostrils flare—“Baby.”
“Why do I have to get in it?”
He exhales through his nose—“If I say anythin’ else, she’s gonna cry.”
You sigh, surrendering—“Isla—” Your voice softens as you meet her big, stubborn eyes—“It’s your bedtime, ladybug. What’s going on?”
“‘M not tired!”
“Okay. Well, maybe you can stay up a little—”
“We’re not givin’ her ultimatums,” Eren cuts in, sharp. His stare bores into Isla, unblinking—“Bed. Now.”
He waits until the bathroom door clicks shut behind Isla. The faucet runs, muffled, and only then does he turn toward you. His broad frame blocks the kitchen light, casting you in his silhouette.
“Teaching her ultimatums ain’t gon’ teach her respect when someone gives her an order.”
You flick a sock into its pile, unfazed—“She’s not in basic training, ‘Ren. Relax. Maybe that’s just her expressing that she’s upset without knowing how else to communicate it.”
Eren crosses his arms—the movement makes his biceps strain against his rolled sleeves, “That’s fine. But that’s when you correct it. She shouldn’t be upset over somethin’ as simple as brushin’ her teeth and preparin’ for bed.”
Eyebrow arching, you meet his stare dead-on—“A six-year-old isn’t purposely trying to defy you. You do know that, right?”
He doesn’t blink.
“Small shit leads to bigger shit in the future. You know that?”
The sock in your hand crumples. You toss it down, straightening—“You don’t have to hint me in on cause and effect, Eren.”
“I’m ‘Eren’ now?”
You give him the look—the one that’s equal parts exasperation and really, nigga?
He exhales sharply through his nose, running a hand over his face—“I’m not tryin’ to argue, goddamn.”
His voice drops, gruff but controlled—“I’m just sayin’—this is shit we should be payin’ attention to before we put her in public school.”
Your frown deepens, “And when did we discuss that, Sergeant?”
“That small interaction just showed she’s lackin’ in social cues. She’s too cooped up beneath us—thinks shit revolves around her.”
He shrugs, jaw tight—“She needs to be around other kids. Make her realize it ain’t the Isla Show.”
“I wonder where she gets that from?”
His lips smack—hard—before he turns abruptly, grabbing the dishrag again and wiping down the counter with more force than necessary.
Silence settles between you, thick and prickly. The faucet’s still running in the bathroom—Isla’s probably taking her sweet time just to stall.
Okay, maybe that was a little mean.
So with that, you rise slowly from the sofa, bare feet padding across the hardwood until you’re pressing yourself flush against his back. The heat of him seeps through his thin shirt—always running hotter than anyone else.
Your lips part, humming Sweet Love—the same Anita Baker melody you’d hummed the day you met him, the same one you’d murmured against his lips at your wedding. He tenses for half a second—then exhales, shoulders dropping as he leans into you. Still silent.
“Li tètdi kou papa'l," you murmur in Creole—Stubborn as her father.
No response.
You press your lips between his shoulder blades, voice softening—“Maybe we’re all just too cooped up in this house…maybe we need a mini vacation this weekend, hm?"
Silence. But you know him—the way his breath hitches just slightly means he’s listening.
“How about…Bayou Teche?"
Your fingers tease the hair at his nape—“A nice cabin…weather’s perfect. ‘Means you can go fishing."
A low grunt—almost imperceptible.
You bite your lip, sliding your hands around his waist—“You can barbecue…drink a beer…Isla’ll tire herself out at the park. And then we can—"
Your fingers dip lower, brushing against the heavy swell of him through his jeans—already half hard, just from your voice, your touch.
"Fuck—"
He turns abruptly, gripping your hips as he yanks you flush against him. Your giggles die against his mouth as his forehead presses to yours, his breath ragged.
“Devil woman," he growls, but there’s no heat in it—just hunger.
And God, you love winning.
"You see where I'm goin’ with this?"
Eren grunts, hands tightening on your hips—“Loud an’ clear."
Your arms loop around his neck, hips swaying gently against his as you press closer—"So?"
He doesn't answer. Just captures your mouth in a searing kiss, tongue sliding against yours with a filthy, possessive growl before he yanks back, leaving you tugging at his bruised lip.
And then—
“Sergeant Yeager’s cool with that."
Victory.
Your grin stretches wide, heart thumping—
"Isla, mouse—" you call over your shoulder, voice singsong—"Daddy’s takin’ us on a trip!"
Before you can gloat further, Eren’s arm hooks under your thighs and wrenches you over his shoulder in one rough motion. You yelp, kicking as he strides toward the bedroom, his free hand swatting your ass—hard, again.
"Get dressed for bed, Isla," he barks, voice dripping with feigned irritation—“I’ll be there in a minute."
The bedroom door slams behind you both—your laughter echoing against the walls as Eren tosses you onto the mattress, his smirk dark with promise.
Game over.
THE RUMBLE OF EREN’S FORD F—150 GROWLS LIKE A BEAST BENEATH YOU, tearing down the Louisiana backroads like the devil himself is chasing him. You don’t even bother fussing about his speed—just flip another page in your book, legs tucked beneath you in the passenger seat as the world blurs outside the window.
The bassline of Helena by My Chemical Romance thrums through the truck, loud enough to rattle the damn windows—another thing you’ve long since surrendered to. Eren drums his fingers on the steering wheel, rough voice half mumbling lyrics under his breath while Isla belts them from the backseat, completely off key but beaming like she’s performing for a crowd. His daughter through and through.
Bayou Teche unfolds in shades of deep green and honey-gold—Spanish moss dripping from towering oaks, sunlight dappling through the leaves onto the winding dirt road leading to your cabin. It’s different now—more polished than the rustic huntsman’s shacks from years past, elevated on stilts with wide porches and kid friendly docks. Still wild, though. Still Louisiana.
You step out first, stretching as the humid air wraps around you like a second skin. Isla scrambles from the truck, tiny hand slipping into yours as you lead her toward the water’s edge.
“Look, baby—“ you murmur, pointing to the slow moving bayou, where an old man in a faded cap casts his line with practiced ease, “See the fish jumping?”
Behind you, Eren moves with that same efficient, muscular grace—hauling duffle bags, fishing gear, and the cooler like it weighs nothing. His brow glistens under the midday sun, tattoos flexing as he adjusts his grip, jaw set in that I-refuse-to-make-two-trips stubbornness.
“Daddy’s gonna catch the biggest one,” Isla declares, bouncing on her toes.
You smirk over your shoulder—catching the way Eren’s mouth twitches, that quiet pride he’ll never admit to.
“Yeah?” you tease.
“Bet he’ll still complain about cleanin’ it.”
“Keep talkin’ crap ‘bout me to our daughter," he rumbles, voice dripping with mock threat—but his lips twitch, betraying him.
You giggle as you guide Isla inside—her tiny fingers gripping yours, practically vibrating with excitement. The cabin wraps around you like a hug—rustic wood beams crisscrossing the ceiling, leather couches softened by knitted throws. A large flatscreen TV mounted above the stone fireplace plays Bluey, with WELCOME HOME, ISLA! scrolling across the bottom in bold letters.
But it’s the table that steals her breath.
A spread of snacks—goldfish crackers, sliced watermelon, chocolate-covered strawberries sits beside neatly wrapped gifts. One tiny box topped with a bow—pink fishing lures, another holding a book called Dragons Love Tacos, her current obsession and a third—dolls, little trinkets here and there.
Isla shrieks, scrambling toward the table like it’s Christmas morning.
A nudge against Eren’s shoulder.
"You did good, Daddy.”
His lips press against your temple—lingering, warm—before he pulls back just enough to murmur, “Who’re you lookin’ this good for, huh?”
You’re dressed like a daydream—a vintage white baby doll dress hugging your curves, spaghetti straps straining under the weight of your heavy tits. That golden heart pendant he bought you rests right between them, dipping into the swell of your cleavage like it belongs there.
Your side-parted curls are piled up in a loose, messy ponytail, secured by a golden heart shaped claw clip—soft tendrils framing your freckled face. Knee high brown boots hug your legs, making your skin glow even richer against the pure white fabric. Southern belle meets sinful.
Eren’s throat moves as he stares—his own outfit mirroring yours in that effortlessly rugged way. A plain white tee stretches across his chest, clinging to every thick muscle, making his tattoos stand out even more. Dark blue jeans hang low on his hips, tucked into those damn brown boots—nearly matching yours once more. His cap’s on backwards, the brim shadowing his sharp gaze, shirt half-tucked into his belt like the country boy he is.
“Have I ever told you I love you on your days off?” you whisper, tilting your chin up.
His nostrils flare—“You flirtin’ with me, Mrs. Yeager?”
Instead of answering, you rise onto your toes, swirling your tongue against his bottom lip before slipping into a deep, filthy kiss—all heat and slow-dripping promise. He growls, hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise as you melt against him.
“I forgot my Hello Kitty outside, Mommy!”
Before either of you can react, Isla’s already darting past, small feet slapping against the wooden floor as she bolts out the door.
“Isla!”
Eren’s voice snaps like a whip—sharp, alarmed—as you both scramble after her. Your heart hammers in your chest, boots slapping against the porch steps as you rush outside—only to freeze at the sight before you.
Isla stands frozen a few feet away, staring up at a beautifully brown skinned couple—early thirties, dressed in relaxed weekend attire—with their little boy, who couldn’t be more than a year or two older than her. The boy holds her pink Hello Kitty plushie delicately in his hands, dark eyes wide with curiosity as he extends it toward her.
“Did you drop this?”
Eren reaches Isla first, large hands gripping her shoulders as he pulls her back slightly, his jaw tight. You exhale, stepping forward as you gently scold, “Isla Marie, you do not run off like that!”
Her bottom lip quivers—but before she can fully pout, you shift your attention to the family, offering a warm, apologetic smile.
“I’m so sorry—we didn’t expect her to just bolt like that. Thank you.”
The woman laughs, shaking her head—“No worries. Boys are just as bad.”
You grin, eyeing their son—who’s still clutching the plushie with care—before asking softly, “Are you guys out here for the weekend too?”
The man nods, slipping an arm around his wife’s waist—“Yes ma’am, rented one of the cabins near the water. Figured we’d let the kid burn off allat’ energy.”
Eren who still stands protectively behind Isla, lets out a low chuckle—“Same here.”
For a moment, the tension eases—just parents exchanging knowing glances over the chaos of kids.
With a gentle nudge, you murmur to Isla, “Take your toy and say thank you, ladybug."
She reaches out carefully, grasping Hello Kitty with both hands before flashing a shy smile—“Thank you."
The little boy grins wide, one tooth noticeably missing—“Hello Kitty’s cool," he admits, shrugging, “But not as cool as Batman."
Isla’s eyes light up—“I like Batman too!"
His father chuckles, running a hand over his son’s low fro—“Looks like you’ve made a new friend."
He extends a hand towards Eren, “This is Elias. I’m Malik, and this is my wife, Noelle."
You kneel down, meeting Elias at eye level with a warm hum—“Elias, hm?" Then, in smooth Creole—“Ou pale lang sa a?"
You speak this language?
His cheeks pinken as he nods, responding softly in the same tongue—“Wi... yon ti kras."
Yes... a little.
You giggle, glancing up at Noelle—“He’s precious."
Then, turning back to Elias—“Well, this is our daughter Isla."
Your gaze flicks back to Eren, who’s standing slightly behind you, arms crossed, expression locked in that stoic-but-watching mode he defaults to in unfamiliar social situations.
You smirk—“And this is my introverted husband, Eren Yeager."
Eren’s jaw ticks—but he dips his chin in greeting, reaching a hand out with a gruff voice—“Appreciate you helpin’ with the toy."
Isla, tugs at Elias’ sleeve—“You wanna see the fish Daddy’s gonna catch?”
And just like that, the ice is broken.
Eren exhales beside you while Malik chuckles—“Guess we’re all about to see some fish."
Noelle grins—“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a playdate now, hm?”
Your voice is warm but cautious as you glance between them—“I’m sure you guys already had plans...we wouldn’t want to impose."
Noelle waves a hand, grinning like she’s already made up her mind—“It’s no worries at all, mon cheri. We have a big enough boat.”
Malik nods, reaching into their nearby cooler before pulling out a six-pack of unopened craft beer—the good kind—holding it up with a smirk, “And… I brought backup supplies."
Noelle laughs, nudging him—“Anddd, I packed my best bottle of wine—so really, this works out perfectly. I can’t drink this all alone!”
You hesitate, flicking your gaze up to Eren—searching for that silent yes or no in his eyes.
His jaw works for a second, then—“…Let me grab my rods and stuff."
Eren-approved.
A small smile tugs at your lips as he leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before striding back toward the cabin—his boots crunching against the gravel.
Noelle watches him go before grinning at you—“So. That’s Sergeant Yeager, huh?"
You exhale a laugh, “Unfortunately."
Isla tugs at your dress, bouncing—“Mommy, can we go now?!”
You smooth a hand over her curls—“Yes, baby. We’re goin’, alright? Just let daddy come back.”
And just like that—what was supposed to be a quiet weekend of fishing and cabin sex has turned into impromptu group bonding.
You were gonna owe Eren big for this one.
The moment your feet touched the semi-large, definitely expensive boat, your stomach flipped—despite the calm water. Eren’s hand engulfed yours instantly, fingers tightening in that silent I got you way he always did when he sensed your nerves. You pressed into his side, letting his solid frame ground you as the gentle sway of the boat made your knees wobble.
“Batman wouldn’t lose to Hello Kitty in a fight!" Elias declared, arms crossed.
Isla gasped—“Yes he would! She has magic!"
They went back and forth, arguing over superheroes, cartoons, and whether chocolate or strawberry milk was better—completely absorbed in their own little world. You bit back a smirk, tilting your head toward Eren.
“See?"
You whispered, nudging him—“She’s fine."
Then, Noelle appeared with a glass of wine and a small charcuterie board, grinning.
“‘Figured you could use this more than me."
You hesitated—but one sip of the rich, velvety Cabernet had you sighing in surrender.
“Oh my God," you groaned, “This is perfect."
Noelle laughed, settling beside you as she admired your wedding ring—a delicate gold band with a vintage oval diamond. She gasped, “This is stunning, girl.”
You smiled, twisting it absently—“Thank you…Eren actually picked it."
Her brows lifted—“Damn. Sergeant Yeager’s got taste."
You snorted into your wine.
The conversation flowed easily after that—Noelle mentioning how Elias had been homeschooled for a while before transitioning to public school. Your ears perked up, leaning in as she shared her own worries—too sheltered, too attached, too sensitive to noise.
“I swear, I cried every day for a week after dropping him off," she admitted, swirling her wine, “But kids adjust easier than you think. ‘Baby girl will be just fine.”
Your gaze drifted toward Eren, and for a moment, you were stunned. There he was—actually relaxed, sharing beers with Malik like they were old friends instead of exchanging stiff, awkward small talk. His deep laughter rumbled through the air, mixing with Malik’s as they swapped crude jokes, their voices low and comfortable.
God, he looked good.
Sunlight gilded his olive skin, tattoos standing out starkly against the golden hue. His jaw worked lazily around a toothpick, cap tugged backward, shadowing his eyes just enough to make them gleam when he glanced your way. And then—wink. Arrogant, knowing, all yours.
Everything was perfect—until it wasn’t.
Eren and Malik now shifted toward the edge of the boat, settling with Isla and Elias perched on their laps, tiny hands gripping fishing rods.
“Alright, little soldiers," Malik suddenly boomed—in a full-blown Australian accent, “We’re on a top-secret mission. The enemy? Big bloody fish."
The kids shrieked with laughter, wiggling excitedly as the boat glided toward a spot where fish flipped wildly near the surface—massive, shadowy shapes darting beneath the water.
Eren smirked, reaching for his bait bucket—“Gotta lure ’em in just right.”
You and Noelle exchanged amused glances, watching as the men played up the theatrics—until—
A sharp jerk on Isla’s line.
Her gasp was instant—“Daddy—DADDY, IT’S PULLING!"
Eren’s arms flexed around her, guiding her grip—“Hold on, baby—hold on—“
The fish gave one last violent jerk—then plop—disappeared back into the water, leaving Isla’s hook empty. Her bottom lip trembled instantly, but before the first tear could even form, Eren pressed a quick, playful bubble against her cheek with his lips—"Pffft!"
The unexpected sensation made her squeal, dissolving her sadness into giggles as she wiped her face.
“Daddy’s gonna get you the biggest fish in the pond, Mouse.”
Time passed lazily—laughter, clinking beer bottles, Malik dramatically retelling fishing stories. And then?
"I GOT ONE!"
Elias shrieked this, nearly launching himself out of Malik’s lap.
Malik wrapped an arm around him, helping him reel in the line as a fat bass broke the surface, thrashing wildly before landing with a wet smack into their bucket.
Cheers erupted—you and Noelle clapping, Malik lifting Elias onto his shoulders in victory while the little boy waved his arms like he’d just won the Olympics.
But then—
You saw that look on Isla’s face.
The same one from days ago—when Eren had told her to go to bed. The unflinching, determined, plotting look.
Isla's little voice cuts through the laughter—“That was
my fish!"
Malik chuckles, “It's alright, baby girl. We can catch you one soon—"
“NO!"
Isla lunges forward, tiny hands snatching the rod right out of Elias' grip with a strength that shocks you. Her green eyes—Eren’s eyes—narrow into slits, her voice firm and indignant—“MY fish!"
Noelle's expression shifts from amused to concerned instantly.
“Hey, Isla," she says gently but firmly—“That's not okay. We don't do that."
But Isla doesn't care.
Her face scrunches up, cheeks flushing red, and before you can even react—she explodes.
“IT'S MIIIIINE!"
A full blown tantrum erupts—screams, flailing limbs, tears streaming down her face like a damn hurricane. Your eyes widen in horror as you lunge forward, wrapping your arms around her writhing little body before she accidentally smacks someone with the fishing rod.
"Isla Marie Yeager!" you snap, trying to keep your voice steady despite the utter shock coursing through you.
She kicks, screams louder—“DADDYYYYY!"—like he’s her last hope.
And when you look at Eren, begging him with your eyes to step in? He just...
Takes a slow swig of his beer.
And says completely deadpan—“This is how she expresses herself."
Malik blinks. Noelle's mouth drops open. Elias looks terrified.
And you?
You stare at Eren like he’s just grown a second head.
"Eren,” Your voice is lethally calm.
“What?”
Oh, you were gonna kill him.
You bit your cheek—hard—clutching Isla tighter against your chest as you forced the politest tone you could muster.
“Can we be let off?"
Malik doesn’t argue—just nodded silently and swung the boat back toward the dock. You were off that deck before Eren could even blink, storming down the pier, Isla hiccuping against your shoulder.
The cabin door slammed behind you.
You set Isla down, kneeling instantly to meet her watery gaze—“That was absolutely unacceptable, Isla!”
Her tiny chest shuddered, tears spilling over freckled cheeks as she whimpered, “‘M sorry, Mommy…"
You exhaled sharply, cupping her face—“I know you are, baby. But you just can’t do things like that!—“
The door opens, Eren strolling in like he hadn’t just watched his child lose her damn mind in public.
“I explained the situation," he murmurs, tossing his cap onto the couch—“Malik says they’re grillin’ later—we can head back out around seven."
You stood so fast your knees popped.
"Are you serious?”
Your voice was dangerously low, “You’re not gonna say anything about what just happened?"
He raised a brow.
“Is there somethin’ I was supposed to do?”
Your body physically vibrated.
For one glorious, violent second, you imagined yourself lunging across the room. Instead, you scooped Isla back into your arms, murmuring through clenched teeth, “Alright, Eren," and headed for the bedroom.
His heavy footsteps followed—“What’s the attitude for, huh?"
You whip around so fast Isla’s little arms tighten around your neck in surprise. Hot Creole words rise like fire in your throat—
“Ou wè sa k pase, epi ou fè tankou ou pa konprann? Sa k nan tèt ou?!"
You see what’s happening, and you’re acting like you don’t understand?
But you stop yourself—swallowing the language thick with fury—and force it into English before it explodes out of you.
“Eren, I begged you for help—and you take what I said days ago and spit it back in my face? In front of a family we just met. What’s wrong with you?”
Eren’s jaw ticks, but his voice stays low.
“I saw what happened. I left the chastisin’ up to you—cause when I say somethin’, I’m the ‘mean dad,’ right?"
Your hands shake.
You gently place Isla down, murmuring “Go play with your toys, baby,” without even looking—too locked into Eren’s infuriatingly blank expression to notice her still standing there, wide-eyed, gripping the hem of your dress.
And then—
“You’re fucking ridiculous."
Your voice seeps with venom.
“You did this to prove a point? Are you a goddamn child, Eren?”
His nostrils flare—finally, “It didn’t take shit for my point to be made.”
Your vision tunnels red, every muscle in your body coiled tight as you stalk forward—“Ou vle blagè? Mwen ka twò komik!"
You tryna’ be funny? 'Cause I can be hilarious!
Eren doesn't retreat—he never does—just leans down into your space, voice dropping into rough, warning German—”Pass auf, was du sagst."
Watch your mouth.
“Ou menm, ou pa bon anyen!" you hiss—hands flying up to gesture sharply.
You—you're no damn better!
Eren’s jaw locks, temple throbbing—“Du bist kurz davor, mich richtig wütend zu machen."
You're about to make me real fucking mad.
”Alò fè sa!" you snap—nose nearly brushing his, ignoring the way your pulse screams at the danger—“Mwen pa pè ou!"
Then do it! Ain’t nobody scared of you!
A thick silence. And as sniffles come below both of you, reality hits as you feel a tug on your dress. Eren exhales sharply through his nose—eyes flicking down to Isla, who’s now openly crying.
“…Scheiße."
Damn it.
He runs a hand over his face, “We're scarin’ her."
And just like that—the fire gutters out.
Behind you, Isla sniffles—”Papa...Mama...pe pa fache?"
Daddy...Mama...no mad?
Eren's entire posture softens. He crouched down, opening his arms—“Kommen Sie hier, kleine Maus."
Come here, little mouse.
She doesn’t hesitate—barreling into his chest as he tucks her close, pressing a kiss to her curls.
You’ve always clashed with Eren—always survived the disagreements that burned hot behind closed doors, where the echoes of arguing never reached innocent ears. But this? This was different. This was the first time Isla saw the fire between you—really saw it—and it scared her.
Your breath catches. Without hesitation, you lean into her, pressing yourself close against Eren’s chest where he holds her, voice trembling—“Mwen regrèt anpil, ladybug—okay? Mommy’s so sorry."
Isla’s arms fly around your neck shortly after, her face burying into you, dark curls spilling over your shoulders. She doesn’t say anything—just holds on tight, tiny fingers gripping your dress like she’s afraid you’ll disappear. Then, finally, she rubs her teary eyes against your skin and sniffles—"‘M sleepy, Mommy."
Your throat burns.
You nod, scooping her up into your arms, crushing her against your chest like you can press the fear right out of her—"That’s okay, baby. We can ‘go nap, yeah?"
Eren watches silently—and then he sees it.
The way your hands shake. The way your lashes flutter too fast—eyes glossing over with unshed tears. The way your whole body folds inward like you’re about to collapse under the weight of your own guilt.
His voice was low, “Baby.”
You tuck Isla’s face deeper into your shoulder, hiding your own tears—“No, Eren. I wanna go lay down."
The bedroom door clicks shut behind you—soft, final. It leaves Eren standing alone in the hallway with nothing but the silence he gave you when you needed him most. And yeah, that was it.
Moonlight spills through the window hours later, painting silver streaks across the dark room. The reflection of your pendant catches in your half lulled gaze, but it isn’t what wakes you—it’s the smoky, rich scent of charred meat and spices curling through the air.
You blink, groggy, realizing you’re curled protectively around Isla, her tiny body rising and falling in peaceful sleep. A stray sniffle escapes her—remnants of earlier tears—and your chest aches. You press your lips gently into her wild curls, whispering, “‘Love you, ladybug."
You carefully slip out of bed, feet padding silently across the cool hardwood floor. The house is dark, still—except for the faint glow flickering from outside— a sliver of golden light cutting through the shadows of the cracked front door.
You step forward, pushing the door wider—and freeze.
Eren set up everything.
String lights zigzag between the trees, casting a warm glow over the small outdoor table draped in a checkered cloth. Two plates sit waiting—one with a tiny pink fork you instantly recognize as Isla’s, and your own Eren had specially made as a wedding gift. The grill smokes beneath its closed lid, embers glowing beneath.
And then? There’s him.
Shirtless, tattoos on full display under the moonlight, backward cap snug over his messy bun. A towel drapes over one shoulder, cigarette dangling from his lips as he adjusts the grill vents with a flick of his wrist.
He doesn’t turn around, but he knows you’re there.
“‘You hungry?"
You wrap your arms around yourself, watching him.
"What’s all this?"
“‘Just cookin’ for my family."
He pauses—then glances over his shoulder, lips quirking around the cigarette, “Hold on—"
Before you can react, his large hands are on you—gentle but firm—guiding you toward the table and pressing you onto the bench. His voice drops into that ridiculous, exaggerated nobleman’s drawl—“Relax, m’lady. I’m at your service."
He flicks the towel over his arm with dramatic flair, “Steak? Hot dog? Burger? What would madame desire this fine evening?"
You press your lips together, fighting it—but the smile tugs free anyway.
“Steak is fine."
"Ah! A woman of refined taste!”
He snaps his fingers, rushing back to the grill with exaggerated urgency before returning with a plate piled high with perfectly charred steak, veggies glistening with seasoning.
“And would the lady care for a glass of our finest vintage?"
He gestures grandly to a cheap bottle of red wine sweating beside two plastic cups.
A giggle slips out, “That’s perfect."
He beams, setting everything in front of you before leaning in, voice dipping low—“And a tip… for your humble waiter?"
You roll your eyes—but your fingers curl around his jaw anyway, pulling him down to press a sweet, lingering kiss to his lips.
Eren howls—loud enough that you swat at him, giggling—“Shh! You’ll wake Isla!"
“I missed that smile,” he roughly admitted, “‘Can’t have my woman cryin’ ‘cause we argued over stupid shit anymore.”
Eren’s words settle between you, soft but firm. You exhale, replaying the scene—the shouting, Isla’s tears, the way your anger swallowed reason whole. Regret claws at your ribs.
Before he can grab his own plate, your fingers curl around his wrist—gentle, silent—tugging him toward you.
He doesn’t hesitate.
Eren swings a leg over the bench, straddling it backward, knees spread wide as he pulls you flush against him—nestled right between his thighs. His hands find your waist, thumbs rubbing absent circles.
“…I hate when we fight," you murmur, forehead tipping against his.
His breath is warm, laced with smoke and sincerity—“I was bein’ an ass."
“Yeah, you were.”
He grunts, playful but chastised—“‘Heard you the first time, woman."
You giggle.
Then, quieter—“I don’t make choices as a father just to be a dick. I know what it’s like—bein’ that awkward kid at school, feelin’ like you don’t belong. I just don’t want shit like that happenin’ to Isla."
Your fingers trace the ink on his collarbone.
“And I know what it’s like goin’ from homeschooled to public,” you murmur, “Full of memories, but full of trauma too. I don’t want her to live that either.”
Eren nods, calloused palm cradling your cheek.
“She’s a big girl, baby. We just gotta learn to let her fall—let Isla have her own experiences.”
A beat.
“I’m sorry."
You wrap your arms around his neck, pressing your lips to his forehead—“‘M sorry too."
Outside, the grill smokes. Inside, Isla sleeps.
And between you two—nothing but quiet, and the weight of love heavy enough to crush every argument left unsaid.
Creak.
The front door nudges open.
Isla stands there in her little nightgown, curls wild from sleep, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists. She doesn’t speak—just stares at you both, searching for the reassurance she craves.
"Aww, ladybug," you coo, voice dripping with tenderness—"C’mere."
She doesn’t hesitate—practically scrambling toward Eren’s lap, her small hands gripping his shoulders as she climbs up. You watch as he adjusts her effortlessly, one arm cradling her close while his free hand wipes a stray tear from her cheek.
Then? Pfft.
She blows a wet, sloppy raspberry against his jaw, her way of testing the waters—Is Daddy still mad?
Eren huffs a laugh, his voice dropping into low, steady German—“Du bist nicht in Schwierigkeiten, kleine Maus."
You’re not in trouble, little mouse.
He exhales through his nose, fingers gently combing through her hair before his voice drops—low, but firm.
"Ladybug… there’s somethin’ Daddy needs to talk to you about, though.”
Her little head tilts up, wide, forest green eyes blinking at him—innocent and waiting.
Eren adjusts her in his lap, cupping her cheek with one rough hand—“Listen. Tantrums and attitudes ain’t nice, pretty girl. You wouldn’t like it if someone snatched somethin’ from you, right? Or if Mommy and Daddy screamed at you every time you asked us for somethin’—how would that make you feel?"
Isla’s lips quiver—her tiny face scrunching as she shakes her head no, burying herself against his chest with a muffled, “…’Wouldn’t like that.”
Eren rubs slow circles on her back, pressing a kiss to her crown—“I know you’re sorry. But you gotta use your words—tell us what’s goin’ on in that big, smart head of yours."
A pause.
“But today? With Elias?" His tone hardens, just a fraction—“That wasn’t nice, Isla. He was excited to spend time with you—with us. How do you think he felt when you snatched that rod, huh?”
Isla sniffles—her tiny fists balling in his shirt.
“He’s…sad?" she whispers.
Eren nods.
“Yeah, baby. ‘Real sad."
Your chest tightens as you watch—her little shoulders curling inward, the weight of guilt hitting her in waves.
Eren’s thumb swipes under her eye—catching a tear—before murmuring, “But you know what?"
She peeks up.
He grins—suddenly playful—“If you say sorry, I bet he’ll still let us catch the biggest fish after.”
Isla’s eyes light up—just like that, the storm passing—and you exhale, reaching over to tuck a curl behind her ear.
And that apology? Well, that’s exactly what happened.
The walk to Elias’ cabin is quiet—Isla swinging the little yellow paper bag in her hand, her fingers occasionally tightening around Eren’s as nerves flutter in her tiny chest.
When the door swings open, Elias stands there—one cheek smeared with melting ice cream, the cone dripping in his other hand. His eyes widen when he sees Isla, and for a second, nobody speaks.
Behind him, Malik leans against the doorway, brows lifting in amusement, while Noelle wipes her hands on her apron—already smiling before a word is spoken.
Eren clears his throat, nudging Isla forward gently—“Hey, Elias. We came ‘cause Isla had somethin’ to say to you."
Isla takes a deep breath—then holds out the yellow bag, her voice small but sincere—
“…’M sorry for bein’ mean, Elias. I got you somethin’."
Elias blinks. Then—because he’s seven—he immediately peeks inside the bag. His eyes light up when he sees the toy fishing lure inside—the same one he’d been eyeing at the dock’s little shop earlier.
In true kid fashion, Elias skips straight to acceptance—“Whoa, thanks!"—before gasping, “Wanna see my bug collection?!"
Isla glances up at you, hopeful.
You bite back a laugh—“Maybe tomorrow, ladybug."
Malik shakes his head, grinning—“Nonsense. We’re ‘bout to put on a movie for Elias—how ‘bout she stays and watches? Got marshmallows to roast too."
Your lips part to gently decline, but before the words can form—Eren’s voice cuts in, warm and easy.
"That’s fine. ‘Go ‘head, mouse."
Your gaze flicks to Noelle’s—seeking reassurance. Noelle rolls her eyes playfully, waving a hand like she’s swatting away your worry.
“Girl, stop bein’ so sweet! We got this!"
"Okay—well, just call or come knock if anything happens again, or if she needs—"
Eren’s low chuckle interrupts you, his fingers brushing the small of your back, "She ain’t goin’ to war, baby. Relax.”
Your eyes narrow at him briefly before you relent—“We’ll just be cleaning up and packing, okay?"
Malik and Noelle exchange a glance—then look back at Eren, both grinning as they chuckle in unison—"Okay."
Eren’s arm wraps around your waist, tugging you back against him—as he murmurs into your hair, “Breathe. She’s good."
You exhale.
The door clicks shut behind you—filled with laughter, sticky fingers and forgiveness—while the two of you walk back into the quiet evening, hand in hand.
The cabin hums with serenity—the golden glow of dim lighting casting soft shadows across the wooden walls. Without Isla’s usual whirlwind of energy bouncing from couch to kitchen, the space feels almost sacred—still and warm, like a breath held too long finally being released.
You’re folding one of her tiny shirts when you glance up, spotting Eren just outside the screen door, sleeves rolled up as he cleans the grill with methodical swipes of a towel. The scent of charred meat lingers, but soon enough, he’s ducking back inside, arms loaded with leftovers wrapped in foil.
You smile, smoothing out the fabric in your hands before tucking it into her bag—
And then, beneath the quiet, comes the soft hum of Anita Baker’s Sweet Love—your voice wrapping around the melody without thought.
Eren listens.
“Haven’t heard that in a couple days."
Your smile softens, fingers lingering on the zipper of Isla’s bag.
“Had no reason to hum it," you murmur, “My brain was too busy."
The bag gets placed gently beside the couch—and the moment you straighten up, Eren’s there.
Large hands slide around your hips, pulling you back against him with effortless ease. His chest is warm against your spine, his chin resting atop your head as he sways—just slightly—to the rhythm you’d been humming. A giggle slips free—your hands covering his that rest against your stomach, and you hum again, softer this time. A melody meant only for moments like this—when love isn’t loud, but deep, quiet, filling the spaces between breaths.
“This has all been so sweet, baby. I’m so thankful for this—for our child, for you."
His arms tighten, lips pressing against your temple.
And then, softer than the music, your voice wraps around the words—“‘Couldn’t ask for a better husband."
A low, deep rumble.
“‘Think I don’t give you enough credit for how much you ground me.”
Eren murmurs against your skin, his voice rough with affection—“…Couldn’t ask for a better wife in this lifetime.”
His lips press against the curve of your neck—soft, lingering, before trailing up to that spot behind your ear—the one that makes your breath hitch, the one he knows will have you react.
You shudder, as you always do. A shaky giggle escapes as you instinctively lift your hand back, fingers threading into his hair to tug as he nips at the sensitive skin there.
”The perfect momma," he growls, his free hand curling around your throat—his grip just tight enough to make your pulse jump beneath his palm.
His mouth is relentless—sucking, biting, leaving heat blooming beneath your skin, until your teeth sink into your bottom lip, thighs twisting together as pleasure curls low in your belly.
Eyes fluttering shut, you exhale—slow, shaky—your grip tightening in his hair as you arch back into him.
Your head falls back against the solid curve of his shoulder, surrendering to the possessive heat of his touch. The vintage material of your dress slides under Eren’s rough fingers as they trace the dip of your ribcage—slow, deliberate—before curling under the thin straps and tugging them down in one firm motion.
Your heavy tits spill free with a soft bounce, the fabric pooling at your waist as Eren palms them greedily. His calloused hands knead into your supple flesh, fingertips dragging over your nipples until they stiffen beneath his touch. A whimper escapes your lips as you twist to look up at him—only to meet his darkened gaze, his pupils blown wide with hunger.
“Missed these perfect fuckin’ tits,” he rasps, voice thick with desire.
Before you can respond, his mouth crashes onto yours—hot, suffocating—swallowing every needy sound as his thumbs flick over your aching nipples, pinching and rolling them between his fingers. Your back arches, pressing deeper into his grip as pleasure sparks through your veins, your thighs trembling where they press together. His lips move against yours, relentless, stealing every ragged breath as his hands claim every inch of you—rough, possessive, worshiping.
Your tongues slide together in a filthy, wet rhythm—messy and loud—lapping at each other like neither of you can get enough. The kiss leaves you breathless, panting against his lips as your gaze drops down between your bodies—Eren’s rough hands still knead your heavy tits, fingers tugging at your stiffened nipples, making you whimper even more.
“Eren—" you plead softly, voice trembling, “Isla will be home soon..."
"Then make sure to fuck me good ‘fore she gets here."
In one swift motion, his grip tightens on the nape of your neck—shoving you forward onto the sofa with a roughness that sends a jolt through you. Your body bows beneath him, spine arching as he looms over you, his breath hot against your ear.
“Take this shit off,” he orders, voice low and rough, “Hurry up."
You don’t hesitate—shimmying out of the rest of your dress, the fabric pooling at your waist before you kick it free entirely. Your brown skin glows in the dim light, curves soft and supple—an erotic dream made real.
Eren’s gaze burns over you, lingering on the cursive script of his name tattooed just above the dimple of your lower back—his claim, his mark.
Smack!
“Need to keep this shit movin’ like that."
Eren's voice is thick, rough with hunger as he hooks a hand around your hip and yanks you back toward him, “C’mere."
Your legs are spread more before you can even process it—his palm pressing into the small of your back, forcing your spine into a deeper arch. Your face burns as you tuck it against your shoulder, but there’s no hiding—not when he’s got you like this, your glistening folds on full display, inches from his mouth.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
His hand lands again—sharp, stinging—and your fingers fly to your lips, sinking between your teeth to muffle the whimper that trembles free. Eren’s thumbs snatch over your folds, spreading you wider, his breath hot against your most sensitive flesh.
“Fuck," he growls, low and reverent—“Always had such a pretty ass pussy, baby."
The words send a shudder through you—his praise filthy, his grip possessive—as he leans in, tongue dragging a slow, wet stripe up your slit. Your thighs jerk, toes curling against the couch cushions, but he doesn’t let you squirm away. Not when he’s got you right where he wants you. Open, aching, his.
Eren never eats you the same way twice, each time is a new kind of calculated torment.
Sometimes, he wants to drag—his tongue slow and methodical, teasing out your pleasure until you’re shaking, convinced it could last forever.
Sometimes, he wants you desperate—laving over every inch of you except exactly where you need him, forcing you to whimper, beg, pleasepleaseplease—
And then there are moments like this.
Where he just wants to make you squirt right on his fucking face.
His grip on you tightens, fingers digging into the plush flesh of your ass cheeks as he drags you flush against his mouth—no teasing, no build-up. Just slop. His tongue laps at you messy, loud, filthy, spit frothing against your folds as he eats you like a starving man. Your body tenses all at once, caught off guard by the sheer ferocity of it—because no matter how many times he does this, you’re never prepared for this Eren.
Your fingers press deeper into your mouth, biting down on your knuckles as you whimper— “B—baby…"—your gasps pitched high and sweet, tortured.
He doesn’t care.
He just groans into your cunt, tongue swirling in a rhythm on your clit that turns your brain to mush, pleasure so mindless you forget how obscene this must look—how embarrassing—your hips arching, thighs trembling as he devours you.
Then, his lips latch onto your folds, shaking his head side to side—
The wet, sloppy sound echoes in the quiet cabin. Your mouth falling open in silent shock, nearly going slack.
Pffft.
Your pussy farts right against his lips, frothy and obscene from how drenched you are.
“I feel you, baby.”
Eren drawls, his voice vibrating against your dripping flesh as he keeps shaking his head—messy, relentless—letting you feel every hot exhale against your sensitive skin—“Get it out for me."
Your frown deepens—lips pressed together, brows knitted—nearly looking mad at how easily he pulls this reaction from you. But then—your thighs jerk, a whimper breaking free as your body betrays you—
A gush of slick spills over his chin, his lips, his nose—and Eren groans, deep and satisfied, grinding your pulsing pussy against his face like he’s savoring it.
“Fuck," he rasps again, “That was sooo fuckin’ good, baby."
His fingers tangle in your curls as he comes up, gripping tight as he yanks your head back, forcing your gaze to meet his. Dark, possessive, commanding.
“‘Keep them eyes here."
His other hand fists around his cock—thick, heavy, precum glistening at the flushed tip—stroking himself slow as he watches you squirm.
This is Eren in sergeant mode—voice rough, tone brooking no argument as he orders, “Come sink down on it."
You listen, even when you don’t want to. Your spine arches deeper, folds spreading on their own as you lower yourself—his tip catching your entrance in a suffocating chokehold before you finally sink down.
Your pout returns instantly—“Mmmph—!"—a shuddering moan escaping as your pussy creams around him, clamping down in slick, desperate pulses.
Eren grunts, hand cracking against your lower thigh—“That’s what the fuck I like to see."
His grip bruises as he forces you to take more, “Already ‘bout to split you open."
Your eyes roll back the moment you’re fully seated—his cock growing inside you, hitting that deep, deep spot—your cunt lets out another wet pffft as you whimper, ”Mmmmygod, fuhhhck.”
Eren’s gaze burns into yours—mouth curling into that evil glower as he grinds up into you, “It’s curvin’, huh?”
You can’t even answer—too busy gasping as he drops you down again—slow, aching strokes that drag against every swollen inch of your walls.
“Ou twò gwo…”
You're too big…
Eren chuckles, dark and satisfied—watching your brain turn to mud as he fucks it right out of you.
Eren fucks you with the same relentless intensity as he ate you—no mercy, no reprieve. His fingers tighten in your hair, dragging your head back as he punches deep into your trembling pussy—each slow stroke deliberate, each thrust burying his cock to the hilt.
His voice drops into low, rough German—“Du kannst das schaffen. Du bist ein großes Mädchen.”
You can take it. You’re a big girl.
But you aren’t—not right now—not with the way his cock bulldozes your walls, his heavy balls slapping against your swollen clit, his thick shaft painting white streaks inside you every time he pulls halfway out.
A broken mewl slips from your lips—Creole spilling in shaky protest—“Mwen pa...M’nottt…”
“You think that’s gonna stop me from fuckin’ you?”
You gasp, “‘R—Ren—“, but before you can finish, his palm cracks against the side of your face—not harsh, but firm, a warning.
Both hands circle your jaw from behind, tilting your head back as he uses you—leverage to tug you onto his cock with every punishing stroke.
“Actin’ like you don’ want every inch of this shit poundin’ you out,” he growls, voice fatal—hot breath against your ear as you cling to his wrist, muffling your sounds into his palm.
They’re long, whiny, stupid—pleasure so sharp it borders on pain, your pussy clenching around him like it’s trying to milk him dry.
And this is where you lose.
It wasn’t just the way he handled you all the time—it was the way he talked to you. Eren knew. That sweet, patient rasp of his voice could lull you into submission, but right now? Right now he wielded his tone like a weapon—rough, cocky, mocking—and you were helpless against it.
Your pussy relaxes, letting him sink deeper with no fight, even as your face twisted in protest.
Eren notices.
"Look at you," he drawls, hips rolling deep, "’Not even fightin’ my cock."
His palm smoothes over your trembling stomach—possessive.
"Daddy’s so proud of you, mommy."
And—fuck.
Your moans halt, just for a second—eyes watering, lips trembling—before a broken sob escapes you, your cunt clenching around him as you cream in surrender.
Eren groans, fingers digging into your hip as he repeats it—“Daddy’s so proud, mommy. So fuckin’ proud."
Your ass claps against him—wet, obscene—as he pounds into you, your cries dissolving into weak, defeated whimpers.
He coos, like you’re some fragile thing—“I know, baby. Keep milkn’ me. Just like that."
“…I’m—I’m cumming…!”
It’s barely a whisper—pathetic—but Eren grins, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he fucks you through it—relentless, merciless—until you’re nothing but a trembling, dripping mess in his hands.
Your squeal is pitiful as you squirt again, your face tucking into the crook of Eren’s arm as he pulls you into a rough headlock. His bicep presses against your lips, muffling your whimpers as his groan rumbles directly into your ear—
“Fuck, you feel so good.”
Your cries are stifled, swallowed by his skin as he fucks you through your orgasm, each stroke punching another broken sound from your throat. His hips stutter—then lock as he spills inside you with a deep, guttural moan, his cock pulsing as he fills you up.
You’re desperate for his mouth. Twisting in his grip until you find his lips, you kiss him sloppy, wet—teeth clashing, tongues tangling—both of you still grinding against each other like you can’t stop. The cabin air thrums with it—love, passion, heat—until the frenzy finally slows, your bodies slick and trembling.
Eren pulls out, your body shivering at the loss. But your mouth stays on his, chasing his taste like you’re starved for it.
Then—arrogant as ever—he growls against your lips, “‘Gonna give you another baby."
Your giggle is weak—dazed—as you peck his swollen mouth, “Your brain is overdosing on endorphins. You don’t mean that."
"Another girl," Eren grunts against your lips, his voice still rough with pleasure, "Iceland."
You giggle even more, “They’d be nearly ten years apart."
Eren huffs, nudging his nose against yours.
“Maybe a sibling would help her social skills,” his smirk is smug as he adds, “‘See how I’m always stayin’ on topic?"
You roll your eyes but gently pull him forward, letting his heavy body settle over yours, his head nestling between your breasts with a contented sigh. The moment quiets—just the sound of your breathing slowing, your fingers threading lazily through his hair as the afterglow hums between you.
“…She’ll get to learn all of that in school.”
Eren’s closed eyes flicker open—his head lifting slightly as he studies you.
"Like…public school?"
You nod, watching his expression carefully.
“What made you change your mind?
“…It’ll be good for her," you say softly, fingers still combing through his hair—"’Like you said. Her experiences won’t be yours, or mine. They’ll be Isla’s."
Eren stares at you for a long moment—green eyes tracing over your face—before his lips curve into something warm, something proud.
"You’re a fuckin’ woman," he murmurs, voice thick with admiration, “My woman."
Then he’s surging up, capturing your mouth in a deep, searing kiss that makes you giggle against his lips one more time—your heart full, your body still humming with the echoes of him.
"Iceland," Eren growls, his hot breath fanning over your inner thighs as he drags your legs over his shoulders, positioning himself between them again.
“‘Perfect fuckin’ name for my second daughter.”
His thick tip slaps against your soaked folds, already teasing, already possessive. And then?
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Mommy? Daddy?"
Panic shoots through you like lightning. You barrel off the couch, scrambling for your discarded dress, hands shaking as you yank it over you. You’re smoothing your hair, wiping at your swollen lips as you squeak out, "Coming!"
Your eyes narrow at Eren who hasn’t moved an inch—still lazily sprawled on the sofa, half-hard and smirking. You smack his shoulder, hissing under your breath, "Eren, get dressed!"
He just chuckles—deep, unbothered—before calling toward the door, “Hold on, Mouse. Momma and Daddy were just having a play date."
You gasp, hand flying to your mouth. Creole slips out in mortified protest—“Eren, pitié!”
But it’s too late. Noelle and Malik’s muffled voices drift through the door now, "See? Told you they needed time alone!”
Eren’s laughter rumbles through the cabin—warm, unrepentant—as he finally stands, tugging his pants up with one hand while the other pulls you close. His lips press a tender kiss to your temple—soft, sweet—a silent promise.
Yours. Forever.
And despite the chaos—despite the embarrassment—your heart swells. This was the perfect life, and it was always meant to be yours.
