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‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀𝓸𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓯𝓲𝓵𝓶𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓰…‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀

st. lucia, eren.

𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count—10.4K, onlyfans!contentcreatorcouple!, vacation!, originalblackfem!reader, boyfriend!erenyeager, bubblyslightlybimbo!femreader, gymrat!eren, gymrat!femreader, southerncoded!femreader, southerncoded!eren, aggressive!eren, dominant!eren, gruff!eren, sweet!eren, submissive!eren, size kink!, pet names!baby!bunny!, sofa!sex, face slapping!, riding, doggy style, slightly aggressive sex!, dick sucking!, squirting!, creaming!, condomless sex, talks of relationship issues, minors aren’t welcome! 𓊇ྀི

メモ。— happy belated birthday, dada. inspired by a twitter video i seen. it’ll be linked, nasties.

pt 4 of na na.

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click ૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა to open.

˚ ⋆❀ 🐚🫧𓇼 ˖𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝒃𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒉𝒅𝒂𝒚, 𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏. ₎ა✮⋆˙𓆉⋆｡˚⋆❀ 🐚

DEEP, ROSY AND PINK. That was the only way to describe the intense flush of your freckled cheeks, startled by the tan of your skin that went from caramel to earthy brown in days of soaking love from the sun. Being here was a dream—one that you couldn’t bring yourself to wake up from. Not yet.

A vintage filter flickers to life, bathing the screen in golden St. Lucian sunlight that spills through the open balcony of your Mediterranean oasis. The space feels like a dream—terra-cotta tiles underfoot, cream-colored brick walls draped in ivy and trailing flowers, an indoor waterfall trickling softly in the background. The bedroom is an open sanctuary, sheer white curtains billowing around a wooden four-poster bed, its canopy draped lazily over rumpled white sheets.

And there, in the center of it all—him.

Lying sprawled on his back, deep in sleep, his massive frame takes up nearly the entire bed. Dark brown hair—almost black in the shadows, but warm bronze where the sun catches it—fans out across the pillow like spilled ink. The tattoos covering his arm and creeping up his neck stand out starkly against sun-kissed skin, muscular chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. Even in rest, there’s something commanding about him—the natural scowl of his brows, the sharp cut of his jawline, to his full lips slightly parted.

You zoom in slowly, your voice a hushed, adoring whisper—

“Look at you… ‘So handsome.”

The camera lingers on his face—the faint freckles dusting his nose, his lashes brushing his cheeks, down to the stubborn set of his expression even in sleep. You bite back a giggle, leaning closer.

“Baby…?”

No response. Not even a twitch.

Another soft laugh escapes you as you adjust the frame, capturing the way morning light paints him in gold.

“Out cold,” you murmur, fondness dripping from every syllable.

The scene holds—just for a moment—before the camera shifts, panning over the tropical paradise outside, the sound of waves crashing in the distance.

A burgues script title card flashes:

My love letter to you.

The camera catches the delicate flicker of your French-tipped toes as you peel yourself from the bed—moving like a ghost to not disturb him. The lens follows your path through the sprawling villa, gliding over terracotta floors kissed by sunlight, past open-air archways draped in bougainvillea, until you find the perfect spot—a plush, low-slung sofa nestled between an indoor garden and the infinity pool’s edge.

You angle the camera carefully across from you, and there you are.

The sun has painted your skin richer—your freckles somehow more pronounced, scattered like constellations across your cheeks and nose. A faint pink tinge dusts the high points of your face—part sunburn, part blush from pure contentment. Your hair is a masterpiece—long, full French curl braids cascading over shoulders, blending seamlessly with loose ringlets that catch the light like spun gold. They frame your round face perfectly—accentuating full, arched brows, dark cat-like lashes, and lips so plush and pink they look perpetually bitten.

Your neon orange bikini top—streaked with deep pink swirls—clings to your heavy, voluptuous curves, the ruching at the sides straining just slightly from the weight of your breasts. An anklet and sandals in matching pink rest nearby, abandoned for comfort. Your wrists jingle with charm bracelets as you fold yourself onto the sofa, knees tucked under you like a daydream given human form.

You are sinful innocence incarnate—a doll with a devil’s smirk and an angel’s glow.

A delicate hand lifts, waving at the camera as your voice comes out smooth, sweet—yet laced with something deeper.

“Hi, babies. It’s…been a while.”

The camera drinks you in—this vision of sun-soaked serenity—before you finally take a breath and lean forward, ready to tell your story.

But first—a wicked little grin curls at the corner of your mouth.

“Let’s catch up.”

The vintage filter softens your features like a sun faded Polaroid as you tuck a loose curl behind your ear, exhaling with a wistful smile.

“So—You're probably wondering where we've been."

The lens lingers on your face—nostalgia flickering in your dark eyes as you glance past the camera, like you can still see the walls of your old New Orleans shotgun house behind it. That cozy, creole haven with its peeling paint and humming ceiling fans, where the scent of jasmine and Eren’s cooking curled through every room. Home.

“Six months changes things," you murmur, “And, well...life happened."

A breath.

“‘Ren’s meal prep business blew up."

The confession comes with a giggle, like even now it still feels surreal. The Seoul deal had landed like a lightning strike—some high-end Korean health conglomerate offering stupid money for exclusive rights to his keto chicken bowls and Creole-spiced shrimp packs.

“You saw the anniversary live, right? The one where—" You bite your lip,“—Yeah. Anyway. Two days later, they slid into his email with a contract thicker than his arm.”

But? The logistics were brutal. Endless flights between NOLA and Incheon, you both exhausted, missing each other achingly in the stretches between. You mimic Eren’s signature scowl, deepening your voice—

“'Either come with me or I’m burnin’ the passport, Bunny.'"

The move to Korea had been a whirlwind—thrilling at first. Neon-lit streets, steaming bowls of tteokbokki at 3AM, Eren’s hands possessive on your waist as he showed you his Seoul between meetings. But then...

Your smile falters.

“It got lonely."

No Sunday gumbo with your momma. No impromptu BBQs with your cousins spilling onto the porch. Just the two of you in a sleek high-rise, struggling with subway maps and missing the warmth of your people.

“We were happy, but—hollow?"

You press a hand to your sternum, like you can still feel the echo of it.

You then exhale softly, curling your fingers around the edge of the sofa as you confess, “We needed a break—And ‘Ren’s birthday was the perfect excuse to escape."

The waves crash lazily in the background as you tilt your head, sunlight catching the gold hoops in your ears.

“St. Lucia was his dream. Warm water, no schedules, no ’corporate meetings’—" You roll your eyes playfully, but the lightness doesn’t quite reach the tension in your shoulders.

Then, quieter—

“But...he hasn’t been handling twenty-nine the way I thought he would?”

You bite your lip, eyes flickering toward the bedroom where he still sleeps.

“He keeps saying shit like—" You deepen your voice into another gruff imitation of him, “'Damn, Bunny. I’m gettin’ old. Need to settle down before my knees give out.'"

You shake your head, “It’s not just jokes, though. He’s been different. Obsessing over timelines, talking about legacy.”

Your fingers trace idle patterns on your thigh, avoiding the camera’s gaze for a second.

“And then one night, he just—" You swallow hard, “…He said he wanted a baby.”

You curl into yourself slightly, arms wrapping around your middle as if bracing for impact.

“I mean...we always talked about it. But..." you shrug helplessly, "You guys know I don’t plan on doing this—" You gesture vaguely at the camera, “Once we’re married with kids. And I love that you guys have been with us through everything. But..."

A shaky breath.

“I never expected it to be now, you know?”

The air between you and the lens feels thick—charged with something unspoken. Then, abruptly, you straighten, blinking away the wetness in your eyes as a slow, secretive smile tugs at your lips.

“Before I bring myself to tears—well, just watch."

The burgues script appears again.

ST. LUCIA THROUGH YOUR EYES.

A montage flickers to life—each frame saturated with golden sunlight and laughter, the ocean breeze tangling in your hair as St. Lucia unfolds around you both like a dream.

The first day. ‘You in a sheer, plum wrap dress that clings to every curve, standing barefoot on the villa’s terrace as Eren’s hands slide around your waist from behind. His lips brush your shoulder—“My pretty fuckin’ Bunny,” before he nips at your earlobe, making you giggle and swat at him.

That night. A low-lit restaurant nestled right on the beach, lanterns casting a honeyed glow over your faces. You’re seated at a candlelit table, the ocean breeze tousling the loose waves of your dark hair. The camera catches you mid-laugh—a plunging white dress clinging to every dangerous curve of your body, the neckline dipping just low enough to tease the swell of your heavy tits.

You flash a mischievous grin at the lens, dragging your fingertip through the frosting of the miniature birthday cake the staff brought out—“For my birthday boy,” before sucking the sweetness off your finger with an exaggerated pop.

The camera pans to Eren.

Oh, God.

A crisp white button-up clings to his muscular frame like a second skin, his sleeves rolled up to expose those tattooed forearms. His dark hair is slicked back in a low bun—jawline sharp enough to cut glass—green eyes glinting with something between hunger and amusement as he watches you.

Without breaking eye contact with the camera, he leans in—dragging his tongue between your lips, stealing the last traces of frosting straight from your mouth.

You let out a breathy giggle, cheeks flushing as he pulls back with a smirk—“‘Shit tastes better on you."

The second week. A bustling street market. You wear a sage green crochet bikini top and high-waisted denim shorts, sandals dangling from one hand as Eren feeds you bites of spiced plantains off his fork. His thumb swipes sauce from your bottom lip, then slowly licks it off, eyes locked on yours while vendors wolf whistle in the background under your flushed squeaking for him to stop.

That afternoon? A lively, sun-drenched outdoor hair salon tucked under a canopy of palm leaves and strung with colorful beads that clink softly in the breeze. You’re perched on a low wooden stool, surrounded by four St. Lucian aunties—their hands moving in a hypnotic blur as they section, twist, and fold your thick, dark curls into an intricate masterpiece.

Eren’s deep chuckle rumbles behind the camera—“Look at my baby, lookin’ like prettier than the ocean.”

You go to stick your tongue out at him, but that’s when one of the women chides you gently in Kwéyòl—“Hold still, darling!”—before dissolving into warm laughter with the others. The rhythmic swish-swish of hair being braided fills the air, fingers tugging just enough to make you pout.

Another day. The rainforest. ‘You in a khaki mini-skirt and a tied-up tank, shrieking as your sandal slips on a mossy rock—only for Eren to catch you mid-fall, his biceps flexing as he hauls you upright with a growl.

“Watch ‘your feet, woman. You break an ankle, I’m carryin’ you everywhere from now on.”

That evening. A local elder—"Banana Man," as you dubbed him—grinned toothlessly as he guided Eren’s hands around a machete, teaching him to split a ripe banana stalk. Eren listens intently, nodding, repeating phrases in rough-but-earnest Creole while you beam beside him, fingers laced through his free hand in support.

And finally? Sunset. The beach. You in a flowy, butter-yellow sundress, bare feet sinking into warm sand as the Banana Man and another woman chuckles, handing you both each a piece of freshly-cut fruit.

Behind you, you hear the woman fussing at Eren in the same melodic dialect, “Ou pral koupe dwèt ou yo!,” You’ll chop your fingers off!—her tone exasperated but fond.

You bite back a giggle, still focused on your own fruit, not daring to glance over.

"Are you givin' her a hard time?" you call out, voice lilting with amusement.

Eren’s response is soft, almost too casual—

“Not at all, baby."

A pause. Then—

“…Might need some help from you, though."

You roll your eyes playfully, turning with a grin—

And the world stops.

Because there he is.

On one knee.

The machete abandoned beside him, replaced by a velvet box cradled in his trembling hands. His face—usually so composed, so controlled—is raw with emotion, eyes glistening under the sunset.

"Mwen vle ou pou tout rès vi mwen," he rasps—I want you for the rest of my life.

A sob tears from your throat before you can stop it. Your hands fly to your mouth, the piece of fruit tumbling forgotten into the sand as your knees nearly give out.

“Wi—YES—oh my GOD!"

You're in his arms before he can even finish, nearly knocking him over as you collapse against his chest, babbling yes in every language you know—Creole, English, everything—between desperate kisses and tearful laughter.

The camera cuts back to you now—sunlight catching the glint of tears still clinging to your lashes as you hold up your left hand, the diamond glinting like captured starlight. Heavy. Perfect. His.

“We're getting married!” you whisper yell, voice trembling with a giddy, breathless laugh—but it fades too fast.

"...Haven’t been able to get pregnant, though."

A shaky breath. The words taste like salt and something sharper.

“We tried. A couple times. And then...weknew."

Your throat works around the weight of it.

“‘Doctor ran tests. There's—" A tiny, broken noise, “A lot."

Your gaze drops to your lap, where your other hand fists in the fabric of your slip.

“Eren…has given up so much for our content. Let the world into us. But—"

A tear splashes onto your knee. Then another. You don't even notice until your voice cracks.

“All he wants now is privacy. His wife. A baby.”

You swipe at your cheeks with the back of your hand, laughing wetly—“And I couldn’t even—"

The sentence dies.

For a long moment, there's just the sound of the ocean and your unsteady breathing. Then, so quiet the mic barely catches it—

"It felt like I failed him."

Your laughter wavers—thin and watery—as tears streak hot down your cheeks. You swipe at them with trembling fingertips, shaking your head as you murmur, “Sorry, sorry,” to the empty air.

Your voice steadies, even as the tears keep falling.

“But we’re here, in St.Lucia. And I get to spend the rest of my life with the man I love.”

You tilt your face up toward the sunlight, closing your eyes for just a second—

But that’s when the sound of heavy footsteps on tile makes your breath catch.

And there he is.

The camera doesn’t catch his face—just the sheer mass of him, silhouetted against the morning light. Long dark hair, streaked with gold where the sun touches it. Broad shoulders, tattoos creeping up the side of his neck. His bare chest is a canvas of sun-kissed skin, scattered with moles and faint freckles.

But you see all of him—the deep green of his eyes, hazel flecks burning under heavy brows. The natural frown etched into his features, lips full and pink, parted as he rasps—

“Why the hell ain’t you in bed?”

His voice is sleep-rough, edged with concern.

“…’Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur, “Got dressed.”

Silence.

His thumb suddenly grazes your cheek, catching a stray tear. His touch is rough but tender, tilting your face up toward him as he grunts—

“‘You good?”

His hand dwarfs your face, fingers tipping your chin up further. You blink up at him through damp lashes, lips curling into a soft smile despite the lingering tears.

“‘Was just talkin' to our little family," you say, thumb brushing the camera lens gently—“They miss you."

“I miss you in bed," he counters, voice a low, sleep-rough rumble that sends heat prickling up your neck.

A breathless giggle escapes you as you glance at the time.

“Baby, it’s barely noon.”

Your fingers catch his wrist, tugging lightly—“Come sit with me?"

He hesitates—then shakes his head, jaw tightening slightly.

“I’ll ‘show face in a bit," he grunts, “‘Gotta shower first."

“And then you’ll come?"

"Mhm."

The affirmation is gruff, but his grip on your chin tightens as he suddenly leans down, claiming your mouth in a deep, possessive kiss—tongue dragging slow over your bottom lip before pulling away with a wet pop.

And then, he’s gone.

You sigh playfully, shaking your head with a knowing smile as you watch him stalk off—"That's him in a good mood," you murmur, rolling your eyes affectionately before your expression shifts—mischief sparking in your gaze.

“Well, what he doesn't know is I've got a little surprise.”

You bite your bottom lip, fingers tapping against your thigh.

"For him... and you guys."

A sly wink, “You know I can't come on here without giving y'all the other part of our channel."

With that, you hop up from the sofa—bare feet padding silently across the sun-warmed terracotta floors as you tiptoe through the sprawling Mediterranean villa.

The outdoor shower comes into view—a stunning mosaic of turquoise and deep cobalt tiles, sunlight dappling through the latticework. The sound of rushing water meets your ears first, then—

Him.

Eren stands fully nude beneath the spray—a masterpiece of masculine power carved in ink and muscle. Water sluices down the hard planes of his tattooed chest, his biceps flexing as he runs a hand through his dark, wet hair—pushing it back just enough to reveal the sharp cut of his jaw, the sinful curve of his mouth. Droplets cling to his long lashes, framing those deep green eyes as he tips his head back, throat working as the water cascades over him.

His body is ridiculous—abs like forged steel, thick thighs taut with restrained strength. And then—there. Between his legs, heavy and full even at rest, his cock hangs thick against his thigh, the flushed tip glistening under the water.

You carefully prop the camera up, angling it perfectly to capture the outdoor shower's decadent scene before slipping the sheer coverup from your shoulders—letting it pool at your feet in a whisper of fabric. Your neon orange bikini clings to every curve as you step under the arched entrance, hips swaying with playful purpose as you approach his towering frame.

The moment your arms slide around his waist—lips pressing a teasing kiss to the small of his water-slick back—his entire body tenses. Then, slowly, he turns.

One large hand cups your chin, tilting your face up as he looms over you—those hunter-green eyes dark with warning.

“Du kleine Unruhestifterin," he murmurs, voice rough.

You little troublemaker.

His tongue lolls out lazily—a silent command. You obey instantly, your own tongue slipping past your lips to meet his. The slide of them together pulls a shudder from you, your eyes rolling back as he deepens the kiss with a growl—claiming your mouth like he owns it. Because he does.

When you finally pull away—giving his bottom lip one last tug between your teeth—the noise he makes is pure animal. A deep, possessive grunt that sends heat spiraling through your core. You giggle, high and breathless, licking the taste of him from your lips.

“Be nice," you whisper, fluttering your lashes up at him—equal parts angel and devil.

His fingers thread through your French curls, gently cradling your head as he tucks your giggles against his chest—the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your ear. Then, finally, he turns his gaze toward the camera—voice a low, affectionate rumble.

“She’s always been good at persuadin’ me.”

You drape your arms around his neck, pressing your body flush against his as your giggles bubble up—tits bouncing against him playfully.

“‘You happy now? You love all our babies?" you chirp.

His response is a deep, vibrating ”Mhm," as his hands slide down to grip your hips possessively. You snuggle closer, tucking your face into the crook of his shoulder with a satisfied hum, breathing in his scent—sandalwood, something distinctly him.

But while you're nestled against him like a content kitten, Eren has other plans. His lips quirk in that cocky half-smile as he mouths “I lied," directly at the camera—his wink full of mischief before he nuzzles back into you, knowing damn well what he just did.

The camera now cuts to a sprawling deep green sofa bed in a sun drenched corner of the villa, where you're sprawled out in nothing but a skimpy gold bikini—back arched, hips tilted, ass up—your skin glistening under the Caribbean light.

You pout dramatically at the lens, running your hands over your thighs.

“Ugh, I swear I won’t get a full tan here!” you whine, twisting to show the untouched skin of your inner thighs—your fingers tracing the faint tan lines with exaggerated frustration.

Before you can continue your lament, a sharp smack! echoes through the room—Eren’s palm landing firmly on your ass, making the flesh jiggle.

”Move," he rumbles, already nudging you aside—his natural dominance taking over as he manspreads onto the sofa bed like he owns it. His tattoos flex under the golden light, one thick thigh nudging yours apart as he settles in.

Your lips purse into an exaggerated pout, eyes fluttering up at him with faux hurt.

“You're being mean.”

Eren's stares. His index finger then crooks, wagging you closer with that effortless, commanding ease that always makes your stomach flip. You slide toward him, hips swaying playfully, until his hand cups the back of your neck and pulls you into a searing kiss—quick but deep, his tongue swiping possessively over yours before pulling away with a wet smack.

“Tut mir leid, Schatz," he rumbles—I'm sorry, baby—his rough German apology curling around your ears like smoke.

You grin at the camera, freckles standing out against your brown skin as you rub your hands up and down Eren’s tattooed forearms.

“Guess what we have?" you chirp, excitement bubbling in your tone.

Eren arches a brow, his deep voice dry.

“Fan mail?"

"Fan mail!" you squeak, immediately digging into the pretty stack of envelopes beside you—tied together with a silk ribbon. You pluck one out, scanning it before correcting, “Fan question, actually."

Clearing your throat, you read aloud—

“'I love you both so much—your dynamic, the way you tease each other, how passionate you are...Awe!” You pause, pressing a hand to your chest, touched.

“'Okay, okay—so, I'm kind of shy asking this, but I'm in a relationship, and my boyfriend loves when I ride him, but I...don't really know what to do? Any tips?'"

Your lips curl into a sly grin as you shift your hips against Eren’s thigh, fingers drumming playfully on his chest.

“So, let’s talk about cowgirl—fun fact, it actually dates waaaay back," you purr, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“…Some historians trace it to ancient tantric texts, others say it was practically sacred in certain cultures—but let’s be real," your curls sway as you tilt your head, “The real magic? ‘How many ways you can make this classic feel brand new."

Eren’s palm thwaps your ass lightly—a silent get on with it.

“There are several—yes, several—ways to ride," you announce, holding up the corresponding number of fingers, “And lucky for you..." You pat Eren’s thigh like he’s your favorite piece of gym equipment—“..I’ve got the perfect demonstrator right here."

His grunt is half-amused, half-exasperated as you swing a leg over him, straddling his lap playfully.

“Consider this your full tutorial.”

Your posture shifts instantly—shoulders rolling back, lips parting with slow intention as your gaze locks onto Eren’s. The camera catches the way his pupils dilate just slightly when you run your tongue along your mouth, your voice dropping into that tone—the one that’s equal parts instructor and temptress.

“Lesson one," you purr, fingertips skating up his chest, “Start with him comfortable. Relaxed."

Your hips roll in a lazy circle against his lap, the heat between your thighs already unmistakable.

“And obviously...hard. That’s the goal."

You nip at his earlobe, breathing a giggle against his skin when his grip tightens on your waist.

“Baby," you murmur, dragging your tongue along the shell of his ear, “How’re you enjoying St. Lucia?”

Eren’s jaw flexes—the only tell he’ll give you—but you feel him hardening beneath you, the thick ridge of him pressing insistently against your core. Your laugh is velvet-wrapped mischief as you grind down harder, relishing the way his breath hitches.

“Mmm, that’s the reaction we want."

Your fingers glide over the bulging curves of his biceps, kneading the taut muscle with deliberate appreciation.

“Aren’t you having fun with me?" you coo, batting your lashes up at him through the dark fringe of them.

Eren’s eyes—always tracking you—darken further, his voice scraping low from his chest.

“You know how I feel bein’ here.”

“Good boy,” you softly praise, lips curling into that wicked little smile—the one that makes his jaw twitch. Your hands slide down to rub slow, teasing circles over his thick thighs, fingertips ghosting dangerously close to where he really wants them.

“Thank you for being so...communicative.”

Then, with a sinuous shift of your hips, you arch deeper into his lap—your gaze flicking back to the camera.

“Now, tell me—does our birthday boy deserve something…special today?"

The camera catches Eren perfectly—his dark hair pulled into a loose bun, those few stubborn tendrils escaping to frame his glaring, predatory expression. He’s pure power sprawled beneath you—legs spread wide, chest rising with each controlled breath—watching, waiting, like he’s deciding whether to make a move or let you play longer.

Then—your hands hook into the waistband of his sweatpants.

A sharp inhale. A quick tug.

“Oh.”

Your gasp is high, breathy, practically whiny as your big, round eyes drink him in—his cock springing free, thick, flushed and already leaking just from your teasing.

“Look at you," you mewl, voice dripping with honeyed reverence—like he’s something sacred, "’All for me?"

Eren’s smirk is barely there—just a twitch of those sinful lips—before his hand fists in your hair, tilting your face up to his.

“Always."

Your gaze flicks back to the camera with that signature mix of sweet and sinful—letting them in on the moment before your attention returns to him.

“Make him ready for you first," you instruct—your lips parting slightly, tongue swiping along your bottom lip as if already tasting him.

Eren's eyes darken, his grip tightening on your thigh.

“’You thirsty?” he rasps.

You nod eagerly, biting down on your plush lip with those big, pleading eyes.

He doesn't hesitate. His calloused fingers grip your chin, tilting your face up as he spits directly into your open mouth—a thick, wet string of saliva that lands heavy on your tongue.

“Mmm—" You swallow instinctively, eyes fluttering shut as his palm cracks against your cheek.

“Zeig’s ihnen," he growls—Show them.

And oh, you do.

Your tongue drags slow and filthy from the thick base of him all the way up—a long, indulgent lick that leaves a glistening trail along his length. The taste of him—pure Eren—floods your senses as you swirl your tongue around his swollen tip, savoring the bead of precum that leaks onto your taste buds.

Then—your lips part wider, sinking down onto him inch by inch until he’s pressed against the back of your throat. The sound—wet, filthy, obscene—fills the room as your nose brushes against his pelvis, swallowing around him with deliberate patience.

Eren’s groan is low and rough, fingers tightening in your hair as he mutters something in German—praise or a curse, you can’t tell—but the way his hips twitch upward tells you everything you need to know.

“Good fuckin’ girl.”

Your movements grow desperate, hungry—swollen lips struggling to stretch around his impossible girth, every inch of him throbbing against your tongue as you hollow your cheeks and force yourself deeper. The sounds you make—tiny, choked mewls turning into breathless whimpers—only spur him on. His cock hits the back of your throat, again and again, the slick slap of skin against skin filling the air as you drool around him, spit dripping messily down your chin.

When you finally pull away—gasping, lips shiny and ruined—you whine at the loss, your fingers immediately wrapping around what your mouth couldn’t take. Both hands jerk him off in tight, twisting strokes—your tongue darting out to swirl around his leaking tip, collecting the thick beads of precum and licking them up like a starving little thing.

Eren’s voice is ragged, his German words rough and guttural—“So verdammt gierig..."

“So greedy..." you translate breathlessly, giggling around his cock like it’s something adorable, something sweet, despite the filth dripping from your chin. Then? You’re practically bobbing your palms around his dick, going even lower than before.

Eren’s thighs tense, muscles straining beneath ink-stained skin as he curses, fingers tightening in your curls.

“Fuck—" His head tilts back, jaw clenched, as he uses your palms—hips lifting off the bed to fuck up into your hand with sharp, punishing thrusts. You mewl once more as your mouth follows back onto his tip—sucking, sucking down. The camera catches it all—his dominance, your submission, the sinful wetness of every thrust as you put your mouth back on him—until finally, with a growl that rumbles through your bones, he yanks you off with a filthy pop.

“Enough."

Your lips are parted, panting, still aching for him—but his grip on your hair tightens, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“You want to ride?" He rasps, “‘Come fuckin’ ride me.”

“Mm, baby—“ you mewl, “This is a tutorial, shouldn’t we—“

Eren’s response is interrupting—his thick fingers hooking into the flimsy fabric of your bikini bottoms, yanking them aside with a roughness that makes your breath hitch. The sudden slap of his palm against your pussy—sharp, mean—has your hips jerking forward with it.

“Keep goin’ then," he growls, fingers beginning to rub rough circles over your swollen clit, his other hand gripping your ass cheek tight enough to bruise.

“Talk.”

Your body shudders, thighs trembling as you struggle to stay composed—your giggles turning into more breathless whimpers, your voice wavering but still playful as you turn back to the camera.

“O—Okay, so—once he’s ready," you stutter, cheeks flushed deep bronze, “You just—ah!—sink down on him—slow, okay?” You bite your lip, "Especially if—mmf!—if you’ve got someone as big as my 'Ren—“

Eren grunts, dragging the slick, flushed head of his cock through your dripping folds—letting the camera catch the obscene wetness coating him before he smacks your ass hard enough to leave a red handprint.

“Ain’t nobody as big as me," he snarls, voice thick with arrogance—his grip tightening on your waist as he lines himself up, the heavy tip of him pressing teasingly against your entrance.

“Bring it to me.”

Your hand reaches back, fingers curling into the flesh of his thigh as you lock eyes with the camera—your lips parting around a shaky exhale as you begin to sink down onto him.

Eren’s grip shifts suddenly—his calloused fingers seizing your jaw, forcing your face to stay angled toward the lens as he tugs you down with relentless pressure. The stretch is unreal—your walls clenching around his thick cock inch by inch as your breath hitches in your throat.

Your eyes roll back—voice slurring as you try to keep instructing through the haze of pleasure, "Y—You wanna—mmf—take all of it—"

Eren’s his hips jerk up hard, forcing another inch inside—his voice thick with arrogance, “You feelin’ me?”

You whimper, hands gripping his thighs as you force yourself down, your slick walls yielding around him until your ass meets his hips—fully seated. Your face twists—lips parted in a silent moan, eyes squeezing shut before fluttering open to find him instead of the camera.

And then—God—your folds spurt a fresh rush of cream against him, your body betraying you completely as you lose all semblance of control, trembling in his lap.

“Look at you,” he rasps, “Actin’ like a big fuckin’ girl, little one.”

Your arms snake around his neck, clinging to him as you press a soft, pleading kiss to his lips—whispering against them in Creole, just for him—“Lèt mwen mennen, chéri..."

Let me lead, baby…

Eren hesitates—his dark eyes searching yours—before he exhales sharply through his nose. He pulls back just enough to guide your palms onto his chest, lips pressing against your ring, to both of your palms in turn—a silent permission—before his arms drop to his sides, muscles taut with restraint.

“‘Go ‘head.”

Your voice then lilts sweetly, hips rolling in slow, teasing circles against his lap.

“Okay, so first—warm up," you murmur, fingers threading through the loose tendrils of his dark hair, tugging just enough to make his jaw clench.

“You wanna start slow," you breathe, eyelashes fluttering—though your breath hitches when he twitches inside you, thick and impatient.

“It's all about—mm—connection..."

You whine a little—high-pitched, adorable—your folds clutching desperately at his cock with every tiny shift.

“T—Take your time adjusting," you instruct shakily, though it sounds more like you're reminding yourself—your thighs trembling as you rise up until just the tip of him remains, then sink back down with a breathy sigh.

Eren's hands flex against the sofa—his nostrils flaring as he watches you, taunting him with your lazy pace. But he lets you lead, just like you asked—even if his teeth grind together when your nails scrape against his scalp.

“‘Feel good, baby?”

Eren just growls, his hips jerking up just enough to make your entire body twitch.

“Quit playin’."

Your lips press a tender kiss to the tip of his nose—soft, sweet—and he retaliates by bumping his nose against yours in return, making you giggle breathlessly.

“Okay,” you whisper, “First three positions—think of ‘em like gears,” you explain, hips rolling in slow, indulgent circles—your thighs flexing as you shift upward, grinding rather than bouncing.

“First gear—easy, sensual, all about the tease.”

You demonstrate, your back arching beautifully as you rock against him—your gaze locked onto his, heavy-lidded and dripping with intent, “It’s more for your pleasure, but—”

One of your hands lifts, twirling a loose curl around your finger—your French braids cascading over your shoulders, the scent of vanilla and sunshine clinging to them.

“You keep his attention by making him watch.”

Your other hand slides up your own body—fingers trailing over your collarbone before you hook them into the ties of your bikini top. With a flick, the fabric falls away—your heavy breasts bouncing free, nipples peaked and begging for touch.

Eren’s nostrils flare, but he stays still—letting you lead, even as his cock twitches deep inside you.

“Second gear—”

Your breath hitches as you shift again, riding him with more purpose—your hips undulating in slow, delicious waves.

“Third gear—”

And then you grind, your clit rubbing firmly against the base of him with every movement. A rush of pleasure floods your senses—your walls fluttering around him as you struggle to keep your voice steady.

“Th—This one—” You swallow hard, your words slurring slightly, “Might—mmf—hit your spots—“

“Yeah?”

Eren suddenly rasps—arrogant, smug—his fingers flexing against your hips but still refusing to help.

A desperate little whimper escapes your lips—“Y—Yeah”—as your hips roll faster, grinding against him like a toy wound too tight, chasing that sweet, throbbing pleasure building low in your belly.

Eren stays perfectly still beneath you—just watching with those eyes, his low voice taunting as he growls,

“C'mon, baby. Keep goin’.”

Your breath catches—a sharp gasp ripping from your throat as your head falls back, braids cascading over your shoulders. But Eren’s fingers snap up, wrapping around your throat in a firm grip, forcing your gaze back to him.

“Nah, nah—eyes on me," he rasps, thumb brushing your pulse point—“‘Want you to see me watchin’ you.”

Tears well in your eyes—spilling over as your climax crashes into you with a sob, your cream gushing around him, coating his balls in slick heat.

Eren tsks—his grip tightening on your ass cheek, tugging your grinding hips right where he wants them as he murmurs low in German,

"So schön... so verdammt schön für mich…”

So beautiful... so fuckin’ beautiful for me…

Your hips slow to a sensual sway, chest rising and falling with each breath as your curls tumble over your shoulders, framing your breasts like a dark halo. You glance down at Eren through your lashes, lips parted as you try to steady your breathing—but the second your arms wrap around his neck, you let out a soft, shy giggle, turning toward the camera with a sheepish smile.

“Oops—" you murmur, voice dripping with playful sweetness, “Didn’t mean to get so...carried away."

Eren huffs out a rough chuckle, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses between your breasts—“I love watchin’ you like that. Love watchin’ you cum like that."

You bite your lip, suppressing another giggle before looking back at the camera—your expression shifting back into instructor mode, though your voice is still breathy from pleasure.

“See? The three gears—always gonna get you there," you sigh, fingers threading lazily through Eren’s hair—“And trust me... your man’s gonna love it."

Your lips curl into a lazy, satisfied smile as you glance at the camera, breath still uneven.

“Not done yet though,” you hum—“‘Might feel a little sore after that first round, so this is when you just...sit in it. Warm each other up all over again."

Your fingers trail down to nudge Eren's chin, tipping his face up toward you—your eyes softening as you whisper, "’Love you, yeah?"

He doesn't answer with words—just tugs your mouth down to his in a slow, deep kiss, tongues sliding together with unhurried heat. His hands roam over your back, fingers pressing possessively into the curve of your hips as you shift slightly—your folds grinding lazily along the swollen tip of him, drawing a low groan from his chest.

Then, with a breathless shudder, you sink back down onto him—your lips parting against his in a silent gasp as he fills you completely. The kiss deepens, languid and intoxicating, until you finally pull back—turning toward the camera with flushed cheeks.

“This one—" you pant, rocking up and down in slow, shallow motions, “—We call the lazy cowgirl. No rush, no pressure... just breathing together before the next round."

Your hips roll in smooth, rhythmic waves—your tongue dragging teasingly along Eren's neck as you murmur against his pulse, “Keep it playful now... this one's for him."

Your hands glide over the sculpted planes of his biceps and shoulders, fingertips tracing the ink-dark tattoos as you murmur, “You’re too handsome, baby—" between slow, rocking motions. Eren grunts through the praise, dragging you into a deep, appreciative kiss—but you feel it, the way his restraint starts crumbling, the sharp catch of his breath against your lips betraying how badly he wants to take control.

You tuck your face into the crook of his shoulder, braids spilling like silk over his skin as you peer behind you—watching the sinuous arch of your spine, the hypnotic sway of your hips as you move atop him.

“Okay," you exhale once more, pulling back just enough to meet the camera's gaze—your voice dripping with playful mischief, “Next positions are where it gets fun—pleasurable for both of you."

A giggle bubbles up as you admit, “It’s a silly name, but—we call this one the shakedown.”

And then you show it—your ass lifting slightly before shaking in slow, deliberate twists atop him, the motion making your folds clench around his cock in a way that has his fingers digging into your thighs.

A harsh smack echoes through the room—Eren’s palm cracking against your ass cheek, leaving a stinging flush in its wake. You gasp, but don't stop—grinding down harder as he spanks you again, and again, each sharp slap punctuated by his guttural groans.

“Fuck—" he grits out, grip bruising as he watches your body jolt with every strike.

You whimper through it, trembling—but your voice is a pure sultry tease as you murmur to the camera, “Your man's gonna love how this looks…’gonna turn him on completely.”

Your arms tighten around his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at his naught as you continue rolling your hips in slow, decadent circles—French curls cascading like dark silk over his shoulders, tickling his chest as you tilt your head.

“Baby...you still with me?" you tease, breathless laughter lacing your words as you nudge his temple with your nose, "’You’ve been a little quiet…”

Eren’s response is a rough blend of English and German, his voice thick with barely-restrained hunger as his palm cracks against your ass again—harder this time—forcing a sweet little “Mmph!" from your lips as you jolt forward, your mouth brushing his.

“Scheiße—" he growls, gripping your waist as his other hand lands another stinging slap—“Du siehst so verdammt gut aus—"

You look so fuckin’ good.

His words dissolve into a shuddering groan as your walls clench around him, your body squeezing him in a slick, greedy rhythm. You bite your bottom lip, catching the camera’s gaze with a sultry grin—your voice dropping to a low, instructional purr.

“Next one’s called...the swirl.”

And then you demonstrate—your hips twisting in slow, hypnotic spirals, muscles fluttering tight around him in a way that wrings a filthy, wet sound from where you’re joined. Eren’s grip turns vicious—his cock throbbing inside you as your folds suck him deeper with every sinuous roll.

“Goddamn, Bunny. Just like that. Shit.”

His head is tilting back, groaning as he drags the words out.

Your breath hitches, but you keep going—grinding down in relentless circles, your body milking him with every motion as the camera captures every obscene shlick of your arousal coating him. Your hips continue their sinuous swirl, fingertips skimming the hard planes of his chest before crawling up to cradle the back of his neck possessively.

“This is your chance to dominate.”

Eren's head stays tilted back, his hunter-green eyes locked onto yours—jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle twitch. His chest heaves with each ragged breath, his cock twitching as your folds clench in another deliberate, milking squeeze.

“Hell—" he grunts out, fingers digging into your hips, “That feels too fuckin’ good.”

“Yeah?"

“Yeah.”

And you smile, rolling your hips in another filthy, slower, perfect circle.

Your gaze locks onto the camera as you plant your feet firmly on the sofa—tightening your thighs around his hips as your fingers drag lower, tracing the hard ridges of his abs with deliberate admiration.

"And this—" you breathe, “—Is probably your man’s favorite. The expert cowgirl. Where you let him use you to his strength... his advantage."

Your eyes flick down to Eren, lashes fluttering as you coo, “My man’s so strong—‘can fuck me any way he wants to."*

The second those words leave your lips, Eren’s grip shifts—his hands sliding beneath your thighs, fingers digging into the plush skin of your ass as he takes control, tugging you down onto his cock with a slow, purposeful bounce.

“This—ooh!—this’ll also hit your spots if you let it—"

You gasp, your words fracturing as his tip drags directly over that spongey sweet spot inside you. Your eyes roll slightly—a giggle bubbling up as you try to suppress the shiver of pleasure that ripples through you.

"That’s it," he rasps, his grip tightening as he drives you down harder, faster.

“Take it. Take it. Squeezin’ me just fuckin’ right.”

Your thighs tremble—your folds fluttering around him as he uses you exactly how he wants, his cock pistoning into that perfect, blissful spot with every snap of his hips.

“Eren—" you whimper, your control slipping—your body melting under the weight of his dominance.

“Nuh uh,” he grunts, “Feel it.”

Your fingers slide helplessly over the thick ridges of his biceps beneath you—and that’s when a real, broken whimper claws its way out of your throat, voice trembling as you gasp,

“F—Feels too—mmph!—too good—"

Eren’s response is a rough, impatient tch—his grip tightening as he growls, “You ain’t been enjoyin’ yourself enough. Hold onto me.”

At those words? Your head lolls back, your body going pliant against him as he pounds you—his powerful thighs driving you up and down his cock in slow, devastating bounces that leave your vision hazy. Your nails dig into his forearms—your whine pitching higher, dissolving into a slurred “Mmmphfuh—!" as your words fail you completely.

“I c—can’t think.”

And that’s when you see it—that untamed, rough-edged side of him that follows him everywhere. The country boy who doesn’t ask, just takes—who fucks you with the same effortless dominance he carries in every other part of his life. His hands slide up to your waist, fingers bruising as he lifts you—then drops you back onto his cock with a filthy, wet slap, his hips driving up to meet you.

“Don’t gotta think," he rasps—voice dark, mean with desire.

“Just keep takin’ it.”

Eren's hands lock around your hips like steel bands—his thick cock splitting you open with every brutal, upward thrust. This ain't riding anymore. This is him fucking you—claiming you—his deep southern drawl rumbling against your ear as he takes over your lesson with rough, possessive authority.

“Last one, baby. My fuckin' favorite—the Noise Complaint.”

And God, you understand why he named it that the second his powerful thighs flex beneath you. His grip is absolute—those big, rough hands lifting your entire body with terrifying ease before slamming you back down onto his cock in slow, devastating drops. The sound is obscene—a wet, rhythmic clap of skin-on-skin that echoes off the walls, punctuated by your broken little “Ah! Ah! Ah!" with every bounce.

It’s everything that defines him—raw, unfiltered, dominance, that arrogance dialed to eleven. Clap after clap after clap—skin slapping against skin in a rhythm so loud it dares the neighbors to complain.

“Hear that?" Eren growls, “That’s the shit I wanna hear.”

You're sobbing now—pathetic, high-pitched whines of “E—Eren!" tumbling from your swollen lips as your body betrays you, clamping down on him in helpless pleasure.

“Take your reward for bein' such a good fuckin’ teacher.”

Your fingers clutch at his forearms, desperation creeping into your voice as you whimper, “Baby, please—‘wanna cum in my favorite position...”

“‘Thought it was my birthday, huh?”

But you give him those eyes—the ones that always make him cave—your lower lip trembling as you hiccup, “Please?"

It’s almost adorable—the way you beg, your tits bouncing with every ragged breath, those big, pleading eyes. How could he say no?

“Face first, ass up—now.”

You scramble to obey—arching your back sexily, pressing your flushed face into the sofa cushions as you present yourself for him. The contrast is stark—your small frame dwarfed beneath his towering body, your curves trembling as you wait.

Eren’s gaze flickers to the camera—“‘She knows how she submits in this position," he rumbles, gripping his cock at the base as he watches your folds drip for him. He drags the thick head of his dick against you, taunting you as he growls—

“Only givin’ it to you if you take all of me—no fussin’."

You bite your lip—your fingers clenching the cushions—before spreading yourself wider for him, your voice a sweet, breathless whimper.

“Won’t fuss... ‘promise."

His thick thumb presses down on the small of your back, forcing your spine into a deeper arch as he spreads your folds wider with his free hand.

“All of it," he grunts—and then he sinks into you all at once, his heavy cock stretching you to the limit in one relentless push.

You groan—a high, desperate whimper tearing from your throat as your pussy makes a wet pfft sound around him. He doesn’t let you adjust—just tugs halfway out before slamming back in, the sudden stretch making you sob adorably into the cushions.

Again.

Over and over—until the pleasure borders on discomfort, his thick shaft dragging against your walls with brutal precision.

“Fuck," Eren curses—his voice rough as he starts bouncing you on his cock, your hips gripped tight in his hands.

“Always so fuckin’ tight.”

His groans deepen—low, drawn-out, almost pained—as your slickness coats him completely.

“Goddamn, you’re drownin’ me—“ he pants, hips stuttering as your pussy squelches around him with every thrust. He’s not even lifting you anymore—just pounding into you over and over, your cries turning into sweet, broken sobs as you drag his name out pitifully, “E—Erennn.”

His breath comes jagged—his own control slipping—as he mutters again, “Fuck—you’re so wet—"

And then—with one final, punishing thrust—he buries himself fully inside you, his hips flush against your ass.

That’s when he moans—really moans—his voice slurring.

“Fuhhhhckkk.”

You whimper back—slurring messily, your words barely coherent as you press your forehead into the cushions.

His thrusts slow as he angles his hips just right, grinding the thick head of his cock against that spot once more.

“C'mon," he growls, voice rough with urgency, his grip tightening on your hip—“Get it out. Wanna feel you drench me—make a fuckin' mess."

He yanks himself out, his cock glistening with your slick as he fists himself hard, head tipping back with a jagged groan.

The sudden emptiness makes you whine—but before you can protest, his palm cracks against your ass hard, the sharp sting forcing another sob from your lips.

“Rub that clit," he orders, his voice dark with command—“Don't stop 'til you squirt all over me."

Your thighs tremble violently as your fingers fly to your swollen clit, circling desperately—your entire body tensing as pleasure coils too tight, too much—

"’Ren—‘M—gonna—!" you wail, your voice breaking into a sweet, shattered sob.

He groans—filthy and approving—his strokes on his own cock speeding up as he watches you unravel.

“I know,” he rasps, his green eyes burning with lust.

“Do it. Cover me."

Your back arches violently as your climax explodes out of you—a gushing, uncontrollable flood that soaks his thighs, the sofa, everything—your pussy pulsing around nothing as you scream his name.

Eren growls, his own release hitting him just as hard—thick ropes of cum painting your trembling ass as he groans through gritted teeth.

“Good fuckin’ job, Bunny.”

Your body shudders as the last waves of your climax begin to ebb—but then, without warning, a different kind of release crashes over you. Soft, warm tears spill down your cheeks, catching you by surprise that you quickly wipe your face. It’s not just pleasure anymore—it’s something deeper, more needed, like your body finally surrenders to the intensity of everything you just felt.

Eren notices immediately.

“C'mere," he murmurs, his voice suddenly tender as he pulls you against him, ignoring the mess between you both. His large hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing away your tears as he tucks you into the safety of his chest.

His fingers slide into your braids, stroking gently—his lips pressing against your temple in slow, soothing kisses as he whispers, “You did so fuckin’ good."

You cling to him, your breath hitching as the last tremors of emotion—and pleasure—rush through you. His warmth, his scent, the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath your ear—it all grounds you, wrapping you in a cocoon of safety.

“I got you,” he rumbles, “Always do.”

Your body melts into him, boneless and spent as you curl your arms around his neck and tuck your face against his skin—hiding from the camera’s gaze, suddenly shy despite everything you’ve just shared. Eren chuckles—a deep, knowing sound—his fingers tracing idle circles against your lower back.

“‘Never done that before,” he muses, voice rough with amusement—but there’s no teasing in it. Just warmth.

You don’t answer—just nuzzle deeper into him, your breaths slow and steady against his chest. And like always, he adjusts—his knees bending slightly to give you what you need, his frame curling around yours protectively.

But then—his phone rings.

Eren tenses—his head lifting with a frustrated suck to his teeth—but before he can dismiss it, you murmur, “Might be your Korean investors, baby… take it."

He exhales through his nose.

"Fuckin’ timin’.”

His lips linger against your temple—warm and rough—before he rises from the sofa, his towering frame momentarily blocking the camera’s view. You curl your knees to your chest, still glistening with sweat, your wide, round eyes tracing his every movement—the way his muscles shift beneath his tattooed skin, the way his damp hair clings to the back of his neck.

“Got me on international fuckin’ hold," he grumbles, glancing back at you with a smirk.

A weak, breathless smile tugs at your lips.

But then your gaze sharpens, studying him—the way dominance radiates off him even now, the handsomeness etched into every sharp angle of his face—and something tender swells in your chest.

"Need me to translate when they pick up?" you offer softly, tilting your head.

His green eyes narrow—defensive.

“What you tryin’ to say?"

“That my Korean’s better than yours."

He grabs your discarded top off the floor, entirely dismissing your insult—“Put this on," he orders, tossing it toward you.

You catch it lazily, shrugging.

“Not like they didn’t just watch me—"

“Bunny."

His voice drops—a warning.

You sigh dramatically but relent, sliding the fabric over your head as he steps closer. His fingers brush your nipples through the material—rough, possessive—before he cups your chin, kissing you briefly, firmly.

A command, not a request.

You don’t kiss back—just nod with another sigh, letting him suck your bottom lip once more before he pulls away, already striding out of frame.

You tie the strings of your top back into place, smoothing the fabric down with a soft, playful smile toward the camera—your cheeks still flushed, curls tousled from Eren’s hands.

“Hope y’all enjoyed fanmail," you hum, "It’s always fun answering your questions.”

Behind you, Eren’s deep voice rumbles in Korean—Yes, I understand. I’ll contact you after reviewing the contract again.

You glance over just in time to see him staring directly at you—chin lifted, green eyes gleaming with challenge—as he over-enunciates each syllable, chest puffed with pride.

You roll your eyes hard, fighting a grin as you turn back to the camera and whisper, “He’s been studying as you can tell.”

For the next few minutes, you chat sweetly with the camera—rambling about random things, laughing as you adjust the camera angle—until Eren reappears, a rare, broad grin splitting his face.

“They doubled the investment,” he announces, voice thick with satisfaction.

Your hands clap together, “That’s huge, baby! I knew they’d love you.”

“Let’s celebrate,” he rumbles, already striding toward the kitchen—“‘You hungry?"

You nod eagerly, rubbing your arms as you follow his movements—watching as he pulls open the fridge, muscles flexing under the dim kitchen lights.

“Could make spicy pork stir-fry," he muses, glancing at you—“Or that creamy garlic shrimp you like. Maybe both."

You rest your head on your knees, watching him move through the kitchen with that effortless, masculine grace.

“Whatever your heart desires, birthday boy."

His shoulders tense slightly—the way they always do when he’s deep in thought, jaw locked tight. You notice it instantly.

“Mon chéri," you say softly in Creole, voice a gentle hum beneath the sizzle of the pan—"Défroncé to mâchoire—li plen de tension."

Unclench your jaw—it’s full of tension.

“‘Force of habit.”

“You’d think you were always unhappy,” you warily murmur—which he hears of course.

Eren pauses.

“Why wouldn’t I be happy here with you?" he counters gruffly, not looking up—but you hear it, the defensiveness.

“‘Just wanna pick your brain," you admit, tracing idle circles on your knee—“Feels like if I don’t...I lose you a little."

Eren stills. Then, finally, he turns—his green eyes meeting yours, really meeting them, as he sets the knife down.

“Alright," he rumbles, “Pick, then.”

You let out a slow sigh, chewing your bottom lip as you search for the right words—your fingers twisting together in your lap.

“We’ve been in St. Lucia for a while now,” you start, “After everything—the chaos, the traveling, the proposal,” Your lips curl into a soft smile at the memory—"I’m so happy here, ‘Ren. It’s everything I never knew I needed. But..."

Your throat tightens—because the unspoken thing hangs between you, heavy and undeniable.

“…I just need to know you’re happy too," you finally say, fingers pressing into your knees—“That nothing’s...disappointed you.

Eren’s expression darkens—not in anger, but in fierce disagreement as he steps closer, crowding your space, his rough palms cupping your face.

“Listen t’ me," he rumbles, “There’s nothin’ more I could ask for. You—this—us—" His thumb swipes at your mouth, “You’re my fuckin’ world, woman.”

You press your forehead to his, closing your eyes as you exhale softly—nodding as you whisper, “Okay."

His hands grip your hips roughly, lifting you just enough to smack your ass—the sharp crack making your body jump as he growls, “Let's have some fun, yeah?"

A soft laugh bubbles up in your throat, but before you can respond, he’s already moving—grabbing a glass, rummaging through the fridge.

“Want me to make you a drink?" he offers, half-turned toward you, already reaching for a bottle of rum.

You shake your head, “You're an amazing cook, baby—not the best bartender. ‘M fine."

“Oh?" His head snaps towards you, “So now my drinks ain’t good enough?"

He turns back towards the fridge grabbing fresh fruit, mint, and crushed ice.

“Gonna’ make you eat those words," he mutters—but there’s a smirk tugging at his lips.

You grab the camera, following him into the kitchen with quiet steps—propping it up at the perfect angle to capture this moment. The lens frames him perfectly—his broad shoulders, the way his muscles flex as he bends into the fridge, rummaging for ingredients. You press yourself against his back, molding your body into the warmth of his frame, breathing him in.

Eren chuckles—a low, rumbling sound—before reaching his arm back, large hand cradling your head gently. He tilts his face toward yours, capturing your lips in a slow, tender kiss.

"Love you too," he murmurs against your mouth before pulling away, returning to his mission—citrus fruit in hand, determined to prove his bartending skills.

“I’m really okay without a drink," you say softly.

Eren immediately shoots you a frown.

“We’ve been in St. Lucia for a month," he points out, voice dripping with faux sadness—“And you haven’t drank with me in two whole weeks. What’s goin’ on, huh? I thought you loved me?”

“Pregnant women can’t drink, baby."

Eren freezes.

His hands still—mid-squeeze of a lime—juice dripping forgotten onto the counter.

Slowly, he turns—his green eyes locking onto yours, darker than you’ve ever seen them.

“Bunny," he says—just that—his voice a growl, rough with shock.

You nod—shuddering out a nervous giggle—your fingers twisting together.

“…Yeah."

And then—his hands are on you, cupping your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks as his forehead presses to yours—his breath uneven.

“Fuck," he rasps—and for the first time in years, Eren Yeager sounds shaken.

“How long?" he rasps, voice rough with emotion.

You bite your lip, exhaling shakily.

“Remember... when we first got here?” you murmur, brushing your thumbs over his wrists, “I cried because I wanted dragonfruit—and you scoured the whole island trying to find one?"

A slow realization flickers in his eyes—because you don’t crave things like that. Not randomly. Not desperately.

“…I knew something was off then," you admit softly, “Took a test a few days later...and I—" Your voice cracks slightly, “I didn’t believe it. ‘Thought I was seeing things. So I waited. ‘Took another one. And another."

Eren’s jaw clenches—his breathing uneven—but you can see it in his eyes, the way his mind races, piecing together every moment, every mood swing, every sign.

“I’m sorry," you whimper, pressing your forehead harder against his, “I was so scared it was a false positive—‘didn’t want you to get your hopes up just for it to be nothing."

His grip shifts—one hand sliding down to press against your stomach, his palm huge against you, like he’s already trying to feel what’s growing there.

“When the doctors told me I was possibly infertile…it terrified me—not just because of what it meant for us, but because... I realized how much I wanted this. How much I wanted your baby."

A tear slips free, trailing down your cheek as you continue, words spilling out in a fragile rush—

“But Korea’s so far from home, ‘Ren. All our family’s back in New Orleans, and I—" Your breath hitches, “I want my momma through this. I want her with me when I’m scared, when I don’t know what’s happening to my body. I wanna be home. But I also don’t wanna be away from you—not for a single second of this.”

Your throat tightens, another wave of fear crashing over you—

“And our supporters... our careers... I’m scared of shutting ourselves away from the love we’ve built. I just don’t wanna feel alone—“

“Stop," he orders, voice raw with conviction, “Stop worryin’—right fuckin’ now. You hear me?"

His grip tightens, eyes burning into yours—

“I’d burn down whole goddamn countries for you. For this baby. You wanna go home? We’re goin’.You want your momma? I’ll carry her ass to Korea myself. You scared of bein’ alone? Not happenin’—not as long as I’m breathin’."

A shuddering little cry escapes you—but Eren doesn’t let you crumble. He crushes you to his chest, his heartbeat thundering against your ear as he rasps—

“You’re mine. This baby’s mine. Not distance, careers, not anythin’ will stop me from takin’ care of you.”

You mewl “I love you" against his lips in a tearful, trembling kiss—his mouth crashing into yours with a devotion so deep, it vibrates through your entire body. The heat of his hands cradling your face—every touch radiates pure, unfiltered love.

Pulling back slightly, you turn your watery gaze toward the camera, your damp lashes fluttering as Eren ducks his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply—like he’s memorizing your scent, grounding himself in you.

“We’re having a baby," you beam, voice thick with emotion, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand.

Eren lifts his head, eyes locking onto the camera—determined, possessive—before he gruffly murmurs, “Y’all been with us through everything. ‘No way we go through this without you. Expect more content—a lot more."

Your breath catches—“You sure?" you whisper, searching his face.

He nods without hesitation, “‘Only want you happy, Bunny.”

And then—without warning—you launch yourself into him, legs wrapping around his waist as you giggle, “We’re having a babyyy!”

Eren grunts as he catches you effortlessly, a playful growl rumbling in his chest as he clutches your body tight—“Let’s go see if we can get you pregnant twice.”

Your laughter echoes as he carries you down the hallway—your limbs tangled around him—and with one last breathless “Bye!" from you, the screen flickers, dissolving into static as the camera shuts off in a nostalgic fade.

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