Summary: You were the poster of what a president of a sorority should look like. Looks? Had that down, Social life? Over the roof. But the one thing that didn't meet the criteria was your grades, and being threatened with your presidency had you doing the unspeakable, getting a tutor. ۶ৎ Nerd Armin x black fem reader ۶ৎ
Context: Manipulative Armin (?), semi-public sex, raw, squirting, edging, orgasm denial, fingering, cum shot, more I can't remember
Word count — 6.3k
Babble: Frat boy chronicles entry!
You huffed as you fixed your skirt again, tugging the frayed denim hem down your thighs for what felt like the hundredth time. The jean mini skirt—your absolute favourite, the one that hugged your hips just right and made your legs look endless—was a terrible choice for an autumn day. A crisp breeze had slipped through the cracked hallway window earlier, and now goosebumps prickled across your rich brown skin every time the door to the professor's office creaked open down the hall. Still, you'd chosen it anyway. Because even on days like this, when everything felt like it was slipping, you refused to look anything less than flawless.
From the age of six, when you'd hosted tea parties with mismatched china and insisted on matching napkins, through sleepovers where you directed full-blown talent shows, to the pageants your mom signed you up for—everything about you had been curated. Poised and perfect.
It was no surprise you'd ended up president of the top sorority on campus: legacy status helped, sure, but you'd earned it. The crown fit because you'd made sure it did.
Which made standing here—outside Professor Hargrove's office, heart hammering against your ribs, waiting to beg for a grade mercy was anything but perfect.
The hallway was quieter than usual, a few students passing by, but none paying you any real attention. The last thing you needed was someone asking you what you were doing.
Your posture straightened once the door opened. The professor, who was in his mid 50's, who always had a look of boredom on his face, glanced at you over his reading glasses before gesturing for you to come in.
"Thank you for seeing me, Professor."
He didn't return the smile.
It would have been easier if he were a bit younger and attractive at that. Yes, it would have been unethical, but it wouldn't be the first time you slept with a teacher or TA to help with your grades.
You sat, crossing your legs carefully so the skirt didn't ride up too far. "I wanted to talk about my last exam. The grade—"
"Was failing," he finished flatly, sliding a printed sheet across the desk. Red ink everywhere. A big, circled 58 at the top.
Your stomach dropped, but your face stayed composed. "I know. And I'm willing to do extra credit, rewrite sections, anything. My presidency—"
"I'm aware of your extracurriculars. They're impressive. But this course isn't a popularity contest. You need to pass, or the dean will hear about academic probation. Which means—"
"Suspension of leadership positions," you finished quietly. The words tasted like ash.
Your chest tightened at the thought—your title, your influence, everything you’d built slipping out of your hands over something as stupid as one class.
No.
Absolutely not.
“Professor,” you tried again, leaning forward slightly, voice softer now, more urgent. “I’m willing to retake the test. I just… I can’t let this be it.”
For a moment, he just looked at you.
Long enough to make the silence uncomfortable.
Then he pinched the bridge of his nose with a quiet sigh, like you were exhausting him, and leaned over to his drawer. Your brows drew together as he flipped through his papers before pulling one out and handing it to you.
"This is Armin Arlert, 4.0, current TA and tutors other students for extra credit. He won't mind one more, but don't take this as leniency, he won't tolerate slacking."
A small photo was clipped to the left-hand corner, a professional headshot, probably from his TA application. Blond hair slightly tousled, like he'd run his fingers through it one too many times during a late-night study session. Wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, slipping just a fraction, giving him that unintentionally endearing, slightly dishevelled look. He wore a soft grey sweater that looked cashmere-soft, the collar of a button-up peeking underneath. The kind of face that blended into the background until you really looked.
You couldn't remember seeing him much around campus. Maybe once or twice in the library, tucked in the far back corner with headphones on, highlighter cap between his teeth, completely oblivious to the world. Your circles had never overlapped—loud parties and Greek Row glamour on one side, quiet study carrels and all-nighters on the other.
"So he's going to tutor me?"
Hargrove cleared his throat. "I've already emailed him about you. This is your last chance, y/n."
You folded the paper carefully, tucking it into your bag. "Thank you, Professor."
He waved you off, already turning back to his computer screen.
You stood, smoothing your denim mini skirt one last time—though the autumn chill had made the short hem feel riskier than usual—and walked out with your head high, heels clicking down the empty hallway.
Outside, the late-afternoon sun slanted golden across the quad, warming your deep brown skin despite the bite in the air. Gold hoops caught the light as you tilted your head, replaying the photo in your mind.
A slow smile curved your glossy lips.
He might not tolerate slacking. Fine.
But that didn't mean he couldn't be... persuaded.
Nerds were nerds after all.
You squinted your eyes at the girl in front of you as she tried to give you a half-ass reason as to why she wasn't wearing her sorority colours. Her pastel pink crop top and ripped jeans were cute, but they were not the required hot-pink-and-white uniform you'd drilled into everyone's head for weeks. The annual fundraiser was in full swing behind you: carnival lights strung across the quad, the sharp crack of the dunk tank bell ringing every few seconds, laughter and squeals mixing with the bass thump of your curated playlist.
You’d outdone yourself again this year—every detail perfect, every game profitable, every dollar headed straight to the women’s shelter downtown.
“Chloe,” you said, voice low and sweet in that dangerous way that made pledges freeze, “you had one job. Pink top, white shorts."
“I—well, I thought since it wasn’t that hot out, maybe—”
“Maybe what?” you cut in, voice smooth but edged just enough to make her shrink. “Maybe the rules don’t apply to you?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again.
You exhaled slowly through your nose, tilting your head as you looked her over.
"Go fix it. Now.” You cut in smoothly, stepping closer so she had to tilt her head up to meet your eyes. Your own outfit was flawless: fitted hot-pink tank that hugged every curve, high-waisted white shorts that made your legs look criminal. Your locs in a firm bun ontop of your head with pink butterfly clips, heels swapped for white sneakers only because you’d be running around all day.
Chloe swallowed. “Of course, I'm sorry, prez.”
“Good girl.” You flashed a smile—bright, approving, but edged with warning—then turned on your heel, already scanning the crowd for the next fire to put out.
The fundraiser was hitting its peak: lines at every booth, frat boys yelling bets on who’d get dunked next, girls shrieking as water balloons exploded overhead.
You walked over to the familiar faces you loved seeing every day, two of your sorority sisters were posted up near the cotton-candy stand, giggling over something on a phone screen. Historia—tiny, golden-blonde, and always looking like a doll, wore a pink bandeau top that showed off her toned midriff, paired with micro white shorts. Sasha, tall and curvy with her messy ponytail, rocked a fitted pink tee that hugged her chest perfectly, the hem tucked into high-waisted white shorts.
“And pray tell, what are you two over here doing?” you asked, voice laced with playful suspicion as you stopped in front of them.
Historia squealed the second she saw you, her phone slipping right out of her manicured fingers and tumbling into the grass. You couldn’t help the soft giggle that escaped you.
“Oh my god, you scared me!” she laughed, bending to snatch her phone back up, cheeks already pink. "We were just checking on the TikTok highlights. People love the dunk tank and the wet T-shirt contest."
"Of course they do, boys are easy to please."
"Prez, I think if we wanna beat last year's mark, you should participate in getting wet." Sasha had stuffed half a corn dog in her mouth, her words mumbled.
You arched a perfectly groomed brow, arms crossing under your chest. “Excuse me?”
Sasha shrugged, completely unbothered as she licked mustard off her thumb. “I’m just saying. You, getting absolutely soaked while the guys line up to throw balls at the target? You can't tell me that's not every guy's wet dream."
You blinked at the girl; you hadn't gotten 'dirty' since you started running for president. It's what got your numbers up, but now the other girls did most of the work.
You were gonna shoot Sasha down, but something—someone caught your eye.
You almost didn’t notice him.
Armin Arlert stood as he watched Eren and Connie try to dunk another sorority sister into the tank. The blonde looked exactly how he did in that file, his hair framed his face, but his glasses seemed to hide most of his freckles. He looked weird standing next to the two frat boys. It was weird that they were friends—that they even ran in the same circle.
Your head tilted slightly as you watched him, he looked bloody helpless. This was the guy your professor said takes no nonsense? A smirk reached your lips as you thought back to what Sasha said.
"Fine."
Historia squealed as she rushed over to the dunk tank as you followed behind her. You had gotten a lot of things in life and all you needed to do was to pass this test to keep your pesidency, boys were easy, and nerds are far more easier.
"Hey Ren, Connie."
"Ah, the president has graced us with her presence." You rolled your eyes at the brunette, trying to ignore the way his eyes raked down your body.
You looked over at Armin, who had already been looking at you, shooting him a smile.
"Hey, I haven't seen you around before."
Armin blinked as he looked at you, the blonde didn't expect you to talk to him. He didn't even think you would look his way, especially knowing that you were almost failing one of your classes and he was supposed to tutor you.
"I-uh yeah, I--"
"This is Armin,” Connie cut in, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Friend of ours. Way too buried in his books, so we dragged him out for some actual fun.”
"Well, Armin, I'm about to get up there, how about you try and dunk me. Does that sound like fun?"
Armin’s mouth opened, then closed. His blue eyes widened behind the glasses as they flicked down to your body for half a second, before snapping back up to your face.
You walked towards the dunk talk, a little sway in your movements as you climbed up to the seat. The white shorts rode higher on your thighs as you sat down on the seat, legs crossed slowly, letting him get a good, long look at the smooth curve of your calves and the way the denim hugged your ass.
Armin had taken the ball from Eren as he looked over at you. A crowd began to gather, but he was focused on you. Your smirk deepened, thinking of how you'd have him wrapped around your finger very soon.
But you could have swore you saw a little glint in the blondes eyes as he drew back his arm and threw the ball, dead centre.
The seat dropped out from under you, cold water crashed over your body in a sudden, shocking wave.
You gasped sharply as the icy rush soaked you head to toe—your hot-pink tank turning dark and clinging obscenely, nipples tightening instantly against the wet fabric. The white shorts darkened and moulded to every curve of your hips and ass like a second skin.
The crowd erupted in cheers and whistles.
Your locs had come down from its bun, long strands rolling down your back as they became heavy with water. Your hands pushing the wet strands out of your face as you stepped out of the tank, your nipples perking against the fabric of your top as water droplets ran down the rest of your body.
The cold clung to your body as you ran a towel through your hair, your eyes glancing over to Armin who hadn't taken his eyes off you.
You, of course, always got what you wanted. You knew damn well that you would from him soon enough.
Your brows furrowed as you looked at the closed door in front of you. You were currently in the library, a quiet room had been booked for you and Armin for your tutoring session.
It had been two days since the carnival, and Armin had reached out to you about your tutoring. You remembered you were confused at the number the other day, thinking someone was stalking you.
Hey, uh, hey.
I booked a quiet room for tomorrow at 6PM
Oh, sorry, it's Armin, btw.
Now here you were, standing in the library, even though you would much rather be somewhere else.
Your matching Juicy Couture tracksuit hugged your body perfectly, soft fabric sitting just right against your skin.
You sighed as you opened the door, half expecting to see it empty as it was still quite early. But to your surprise, Armin was sat at the desk, his notes spread across the table, his hair was pushed back out of his face, he was wearing a sweater vest and probably some jeans, you couldn't really tell.
Armin’s eyes widened for a split second before he quickly looked back down at his notes, adjusting his glasses with slightly trembling fingers.
“You’re early,” he said quietly, his voice just a little rougher than usual. “I booked the room for six, but… I wanted to get everything set up.”
You stepped fully into the room, the door clicking shut behind you as you made your way to the other side of the table.
“Well,” you said, crossing your legs as you leaned back slightly, “I’m quite punctual. And the quicker we do this, the quicker I pass, right?”
Armin blinked, looking up at you properly this time.
“Erm…” he hesitated, glancing briefly at the stack of notes in front of him. “It’s a lot of material, so it might take a while.”
Your lips pressed together for a second before you exhaled softly, tilting your head.
“A while as in…?”
“A while as in you’ve missed more than you think,” he said, more certain now, though his tone stayed calm. “We’ll have to go back further than just the last exam.”
You stared at him.
“…You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
Of course, he wasn’t.
"So it looks like you had a problem with the society section, brought down your score by a lot--"
"Wait, what?"
Armin looked back up from the papers, his eyes boring into yours with a look that you were not familiar with. The blonde sighed, actually sighed like you were a hindrance to him.
“I read what you wrote,” he said, voice still even but firmer now. “And you missed key components.”
Your brows pulled together instantly. “No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
The quickness of his response made your spine straighten.
“I wouldn’t have written it if I didn’t know it,” you shot back.
“And yet you still got it wrong.”
Silence.
Your jaw tightened.
Because no one talked to you like that.
"Your answers felt surface-level rather than addressing the structural impact. The professor was generous, giving you a 58. It could’ve been worse.”
You felt heat rise in your chest — part embarrassment, part irritation.
Your fingers curled slightly against the table. Who the fuck was this guy?
“See here?” He tapped a circled paragraph. “You mentioned the economic factors, but completely ignored the social hierarchy and power dynamics that actually drive the changes. That’s why your arguments fell flat.”
"You think I don't know the difference-- I'm not stupid, Arlert—"
"If you knew the difference, you wouldn't have failed."
Your mouth dropped open in complete shock. No one has ever spoken to you like that, no one. And the fact that some fucking nerd had the audacity to was like a slap in the face.
"I'm not here to spare your feelings, I’m here to help you—"
“By talking to me like I’m incompetent?” you shot back.
“By being honest.”
You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, leaning back again as you crossed your arms tightly over your chest.
“This is crazy,” you muttered. “I didn’t come here to be insulted.”
“Then leave.”
You blinked at the blonde. Armin had stopped highlighting passages as he looked up at you. You could have sworn you saw that glint in his eye again—the same one from the fair. It was a twinkle, like he had you exactly where he wanted you.
"It's not my presidency that's on the line, you wanna leave. Leave, it's no harm to me."
You couldn't believe what was happening. Who the fuck was this guy? Wasn't he supposed to be a shy fucking mess? Since when were nerds this fucking bold!?
If it were anyone else, you would have called them every name under the sun and walked out of the room without looking back. But being president was your life, your stepping stone into the real world. You couldn't lose it just because you failed one fucking test and because of one fucking nerd.
Armin watched you for a long moment, those clear blue eyes steady behind his glasses. Then he sighed softly, almost like he was disappointed in you, and slid the practice sheet closer.
“Alright,” he said, voice low, controlled. “You’re probably not stupid, so let’s not act like this is beyond you.”
Your jaw tightened slightly at that, but before you could snap back, he slid the practice sheet closer to you—positioning it directly in front of your hands, like he was guiding you without asking.
“Start with the first question.”
You hesitated for half a second, then glanced down at the paper.
It didn't take you long before your pen moved across the page, writing out what you thought was right. You finished, dropped the pen against the table, and leaned back slightly.
“There.”
Armin didn’t immediately respond.
He leaned forward instead, eyes scanning over what you wrote, quiet for just a second too long.
“No.”
Your head snapped up. “No?”
“You skipped the same step again,” he said, tapping a specific line.
Your irritation flared instantly. “I literally just--"
"Do it again." Your mouth gaped at the blonde who leaned against his chair.
"I'm not doing that shit again."
Armin shrugged his shoulders, his expression blanked as he pulled out a notepad as he started writing down notes.
You swear you could have swallowed blood with how hard you were biting your tongue.
Just get through this, just get through this.
Armin watched as you started to rewrite your answer, his eyes on your frame as you carefully thought it through.
“…Okay,” you muttered, your voice a little soft. “Now what?”
The blonde picked up the paper between his fingers, scanning your answer with a thoughtful expression. His brows lifted slightly as he read. You didn’t know why, but your heart was suddenly hammering against your ribs as you waited, breath held, watching his face for any sign of approval.
“Better,” he said finally, calm and measured.
The single word hit you harder than it should have. You let out a shaky breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding, a small, relieved smile tugging at your glossy lips as your shoulders relaxed.
Armin noticed. Of course he did.
“Want a chocolate?” he asked gently.
“Huh?”
He gestured toward the open box of dark truffle chocolates you somehow hadn’t fully registered before. He popped one into his own mouth first, then tilted the box toward you.
“Have a little treat,” he said softly, almost like he was coaxing a stubborn kitten. “You earned it.”
Your brows knitted in confusion as you took one, popping it into your mouth without thinking—completely missing the way Armin’s eyes lingered on your lips for just a second too long before he looked back down at the page.
You didn’t notice.
You didn’t notice a lot of things.
Like how he only slid the box closer when you got something right.
Or how his tone shifted—just slightly—when you were on the right track.
Or how you’d started leaning forward before he even told you to.
A couple of hours had passed. The clock on your phone now read 9:07 p.m., and you were starting to get seriously irritated. You wanted to be anywhere but here — preferably getting drunk with your sisters or buried in bed with a tub of ice cream. Instead, you were still stuck in this tiny study room, letting some nobody nerd boss you around like he owned you.
“You did it wrong again,” Armin said calmly, circling another mistake on your paper.
You kissed your teeth loudly and pushed the notepad away from you. “You keep fucking talking to me like that, Armin—”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he cut in, his voice soft but dripping with obvious sarcasm. He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head slightly as he looked at you.
Your brows pinched together. That tone was going to send you into a spiral.
Before you could snap back at him, Armin sighed and slowly closed the notebook. The sudden silence made the room feel smaller. He adjusted his glasses, then looked at you with that same steady, unreadable expression that was starting to unnerve you.
"You look kinda pretty when you're mad."
You blinked, caught completely off guard.
“W-what?”
“Hurry up and do this last bit—”
“You think I’m pretty?” The words tumbled out before you could stop them. You hated how surprised you sounded.
Armin tilted his head, watching you with quiet intensity. He had to bite back the small smirk threatening to form as you shifted in your seat, suddenly self-conscious. He knew exactly why you’d shown up dressed like this. The baby-pink Juicy Couture tracksuit was supposed to be casual, but it clung to every curve of your body. The zipper was already pulled dangerously low, and the thin tank top underneath was doing a poor job of containing your full breasts.
Yes, you were hot. Armin wasn’t blind. But he wasn’t stupid either.
"How about this? Do this part for me, and I'll tell you all about how pretty you are."
A loud tsk left your lips, "I don't need you to tell me that I'm pretty--"
"Okay then, do your work and stop bothering me."
You don't know how much more of Armin you can take. How could he be so rude and passive-aggressive?
With a heavy sigh, you bowed your head and forced yourself to focus on the paper. Armin watched you the entire time, eyes sharp behind his glasses. Every time your pen moved across the page, the corner of his mouth twitched upward in quiet satisfaction.
You had the look of a kicked puppy as he handed the blonde the paper, your knee bouncing as you waited for something.
"Good girl."
Heat immediately flooded your lower belly and core at the sound of his voice. The words hit you harder than they had any right to.
“W—what?” you stammered, eyes widening.
Armin looked up from the paper, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. "I said, ' Good girl, you finally listened and used that brain of yours."
The praise twisted inside you, sweet and stinging all at once, flooding your cheeks with heat while your core clenched in response. How did he do that—turn a simple acknowledgement into something that made your body ache? You shifted in your seat, the chair creaking under you, trying to hide the way your nipples tightened against the fabric of your tank top. His gaze didn't waver, drinking in your reaction like he knew exactly what it did to you.
"What's the matter with you!?" The words burst from your lips before you could stop them, your voice cracking with a mix of fury and frustration. You shoved back from the table and stood up abruptly, your chair scraping against the floor in the quiet room. Your brows pinched tight, cheeks burning hotter than before, and your chest heaved with each ragged breath, pushing your breasts up against the clinging material of your top.
Armin watched you as you stood up from your seat, your brows pinched together, your cheeks flushed, and your chest heaving. He didn't know what amused him most, the fact that you were angry at him or that it took you so long before you snapped.
"Where the fuck do you get off hitting on me!?
Armin leaned back in his seat, completely unfazed.
“Hitting on you?” he repeated, voice low and even, almost innocent. “I’m not hitting on you. I’m rewarding you. There’s a difference.”
He stood up slowly, rounding the table until he was standing right in front of you. Even though he wasn’t particularly tall, the way he carried himself made him feel like he towered over you in that moment. His eyes dropped openly to your exposed cleavage, then slowly dragged back up to your flushed face.
“You’re the one who came in here dressed like this,” he continued softly, almost gently. “Just looking for my attention. And now that you have it… You’re mad?”
You opened your mouth to argue, but he stepped closer, backing you up until your ass hit the edge of the table.
Armin placed one hand on the table beside your hip, caging you in without even touching you.
“Be honest with yourself,” he murmured, voice dropping into that dangerous, velvet tone. “You’re not angry because I’m ‘hitting on you.’ You’re angry because you're so used to pulling the strings with people, but I pulled yours ever so successfully.”
His free hand came up, and he lightly traced a finger down the centre of your chest, following the line of your gold chain until it rested between your breasts.
"Fuck you," you managed, but your voice came out breathy, lacking conviction as his hand came up to brace on the table beside your hip, caging you further. The scent of him filled your senses, making your head spin. You could feel the dampness spreading between your legs, your clit throbbing with every heartbeat, betraying how his rudeness twisted into something intoxicating.
A dark chuckle left the blonde's lips, his fingers tracing on the exposed skin of your hip. "Is that a suggestion?"
He didn't wait for your response; his mouth crashed down on yours, devouring you in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, dominating without mercy. You moaned into it, hands flying up to rest on his chest, you weren't even sure if you were trying to push him away or not but you knew you didn't have the strength to.
His tongue pushed through your mouth, claiming every inch as his other hand slid down your side, gripping your hip hard enough to bruise the soft flesh.
A gasp left your lips as he broke the kiss, his lips trailing along your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin of your neck. "Good girl," he breathed against your pulse point, the words sending another gush of slickness to your folds. "See? You respond so well to praises."
Your head was clouded with thoughts; you couldn't really understand what was happening. You had always gotten what you wanted, and for the first time in your life, you didn't, and it left you stunned.
His hand slid from your hip to the front of your open jacket, pushing the pink velour further apart. He palmed one of your heavy breasts through your thin tank top, thumb brushing over your painfully hard nipple.
A broken whimper escaped your lips.
Armin chuckled softly against your neck, the sound sending shivers down your spine. You shook your head, your frustration boiling over as he continued to touch you, but not where you needed him.
A whine broke through your lips as the blonde pulled away from you. Armin didn't give you any time to adjust as he placed you on top of the study desk. Your eyes widened as he stood between your legs, his hand pushing on your chest lightly, your body leaning back slightly on your elbows.
The blonde's eyes stayed on you as his fingers hooked in the waistband of your tracksuit bottoms and panties. With a slow, deliberate tug, he dragged them down your legs, exposing your bare pussy to the air-conditioned chill of the library room. Your folds glistened with arousal, clit swollen and peeking out.
He spread your thighs wider with his knees, settling his hips against the desk's edge for leverage. One hand trailed up your inner thigh, fingers brushing teasingly close to your entrance before pulling away, making you squirm.
Your lips parted as a soft sigh left you as he slipped a finger inside you, your walls clenching around the intrusion as he curled it against your inner spot. Armin watched as your eyes fluttered, the small gasps and whines leaving your lips as you started to hump his hand.
The blonde raised his brows before they pinched together as he watched you chase your orgasm.
Armin chuckled at the curse that tore through your as he pulled his finger out of you.
"I'm still not convinced that you'd pass, answer a few questions for me, and I'll let you cum."
You blanched, chest still heaving, pussy clenching around nothing from the ruined orgasm.
“Y-you’re not serious?”
Armin shrugged, casual as ever, before dipping two fingers back into your soaked cunt without warning.
You squealed, back arching sharply as he buried them deep and immediately started curling them against your g-spot again.
“Oh I’m very serious,” he murmured, thumb brushing lightly over your swollen clit — just enough to keep you on edge, never enough to let you tip over. “You want to cum on my fingers like a desperate little slut? Then earn it.”
"F--fuck you." A gasp tore through you as he pumped his fingers slowly, deliberately, keeping you right on that agonising edge while he reached for the notebook with his free hand.
Your slick coated his fingers, his lips between his teeth as he looked down at you. “Explain the relationship between social hierarchy and economic disparity in the period we covered. Be detailed this time.”
You could barely think, let alone form coherent sentences. Your hips kept twitching, trying to fuck yourself on his fingers, but every time you got close he slowed down or pulled back just enough to ruin it.
“Answer me, baby,” Armin cooed, leaning down to kiss the side of your neck. “Use that pretty little head of yours."
You whimpered, trying to focus through the haze of need.
“I— fuck— social hierarchy created… barriers that… limited access to resources…” you gasped out, barely getting the words right as his fingers curled again.
Armin hummed in approval, speeding up his thumb on your clit for a few blissful seconds before slowing right back down.
“Good girl."
He added a third finger, stretching you open as he continued the cruel game.
"How did power dynamics within the elite class influence political stability?"
Your head fell back, locs spilling across the desk, moans spilling freely now as he edged you mercilessly. Every time your walls started fluttering around his fingers, he eased off, keeping you right on the brink.
Tears of frustration pricked at the corners of your eyes.
“Armin— please—” you whined, hips grinding desperately against his hand.
He leaned over you, lips brushing your ear, voice soft and cruel.
“Answer the question properly, and I’ll let you cum."
"I--I don't know-- Armin!"
The blonde frowned at you before pulling his fingers out of you.
You cried out in raw frustration, a broken sound that echoed in the quiet study room. Fresh tears rolled down your flushed cheeks as your empty pussy clenched around nothing, aching so badly it hurt.
“No—no, please—” you whimpered, trying to reach for his hand, but he caught your wrist gently and pinned it to the desk above your head.
He reached down and tapped two fingers lightly against your swollen clit, making your hips jerk violently.
"Answer the question."
You moaned as your walls clamped around his fingers again, your walls clamped down greedily around the intrusion, sucking him in as he curled them against your G-spot again.
“M-market failures... in social economics,” you stuttered, mind fracturing under the haze of arousal, tears welling in your eyes from the ache. “Private markets fail to allocate resources efficiently... monopolies, externalities, public goods not provided...”
"Go on," he mumbled, his eyes bore on how three of his fingers fucked into your soaked pussy without preamble, stretching you savagely.
“They… they used marriages and alliances—” you gasped, words stumbling out between moans, “—to consolidate wealth and… fuck— and limit access to resources for lower classes—”
You gasped, hips jerking to chase the brutal rhythm.
You teetered on the brink, vision blurring, body tensing for release—but Armin yanked his fingers free mid-thrust, the sudden void making you scream in frustration. “No! Fuck—please!” Your pussy fluttered wildly, clenching on nothing, a pathetic dribble of arousal leaking out.
You felt embarrassed as the tears streamed down your face. Your mind was gone, clouded with the orgasm you were denied over and over.
You wanted to get up and leave, but you knew that you wouldn't. Not only would your legs not allow you, but you wanted to cum, you wanted to cum so badly you would do whatever he asked you.
Armin sent you a wicked smile as he brought his fingers up to your lips. A silent command for you to open your mouth, and you did, you moaned around his fingers as your tongue wrapped around the digits as you swallowed the taste of your cunt.
His eyes darkened behind his glasses as he watched you clean his fingers.
He pulled his fingers free with a wet pop, then finally shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It slapped heavy against your inner thigh — thick, flushed, and already leaking at the tip.
You whimpered at the sight.
Armin gripped your hips, yanking you to the very edge of the desk so your ass hung off it. He lined himself up and pushed in with one smooth, relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt in your soaked, fluttering cunt.
A loud, broken cry tore from your throat.
“Fuck— so tight,” he groaned, eyes fluttering shut for a second before locking back on your face.
He didn’t give you time to adjust. He started fucking you hard and deep, the desk creaking beneath you with every powerful snap of his hips. The wet, obscene sound of your pussy taking his cock filled the small study room.
It was almost embarrassing how fast you felt your orgasm come crashing down on you. But all the edging and denials had your pussy clenching around Armin's cock.
Your back arched violently off the desk, locs spilling everywhere as a sharp, overwhelming pressure built deep in your core.
"Armin—” you sobbed, tears pouring down your face.
He gripped your thighs harder, spreading you wider, pounding into you without mercy.
"Do it,” he growled, voice strained but still in control.
Your whole body seized, a loud, guttural scream ripping from your throat as you squirted hard around his cock. Clear fluid gushed out of you, soaking his stomach, his thighs, and the desk beneath you in messy, pulsing waves. Your pussy clamped down on him like a vice, milking him as you shook and cried through the longest, most intense orgasm of your life.
Armin groaned loudly, but he didn’t stop.
He fucked you straight through it, hips slamming into you even harder, chasing his own release while you kept squirting and sobbing beneath him.
Your palm came up to his chest in a weak, shaky attempt to push him away, but there was no strength behind it. Your fingers just curled into his soft grey sweater, holding on instead as another broken cry left your lips.
“Too much— Armin, please— it’s too much—” you whimpered, voice hoarse and wrecked.
He pushed your hand away, pulling your legs up as he pushed them against your chest. A squeal tearing through you at the new position.
“Shh, good girl,” he breathed against your ear, voice rough but still so fucking calm. “You can take it. You’re going to take every inch while you keep making such a pretty mess for me.”
He didn’t slow down. If anything, he fucked you harder, grinding deep on every thrust so the head of his cock kissed that oversensitive spot inside you over and over. Your squirting had slowed to weak, twitching spurts, but your pussy was still pulsing around him, fluttering wildly.
Armin’s thrusts started to lose their steady rhythm, becoming shorter and harder as he chased his own release. His breathing grew ragged, blond hair sticking to his forehead.
“Fuck— gonna cum,” he growled low in your ear. With a final, deep thrust, he pulled out suddenly. His hand flew to his cock, stroking himself fast and rough until thick, hot ropes of cum shot across your stomach.
The blonde let go of your legs, your body limp against the table as he stood between your spread legs for a moment, catching his breath as he admired the sight.
"You did so well, Ms President. "
You normally get everything you ever wanted. Maybe that made you spoiled and had high expectations about everything, but Armin Arlert just ruined everything for you.
Summary: You didn't know that there were two of them, you found Toru gorgeous, and he was sweet, his brother? Gojo was a menace to society, and you couldn't understand how they were brothers until you did. 𝜗𝜚Nerdjo x black female reader x FratJo 𝜗𝜚
Babble: I had to jump on the bandwagon with the Gojo twins after I saw this lovely picture done by @thatsallitchief | This is part of my frat boy chronicles event
"Since when was this a good idea, Shoko?"
The brunette looked at you as she hung upside down from your bed, a cigarette between her lips, ash dangerously close to dropping onto your comforter.
“It’s a great idea,” she said around the smoke. “You need at least an eighty on this assignment, and babe, we cannot afford anything lower.”
You blinked at her, tugging your crop top down for the fifth time. Somehow it had shrunk since the last time you wore it. Or maybe you’d just been eating better.
“We?” you repeated.
“Yes, we.” Shoko flipped upright with surprising grace, flicking ash into an empty soda can. “We’ve been a package deal since orientation. Your failure is my failure by association. Now, please, do what you need to do.”
You kissed your teeth as you grabbed your tote. "Sounds like you're pimping me out."
You ignored the girls' laugh as you left your dorm. It was no surprise that you were failing in one class; you had a lot on your plate. As president of events and a member of your college cheer team, you barely had time for school.
You were almost done with your freshman year of college, and you had sprouted wings quickly, growing the social ladder faster than you could have imagined.
You didn’t even hate school. You were actually doing good. Your year had gone way smoother than anyone expected.
And because you refused to let one requirement mess up your GPA this early, you did what any slightly desperate freshman with pride issues would do.
You got a tutor.
And not just any tutor.
Satoru Gojo.
Everybody knew Satoru Gojo.
He was campus famous in the most annoying way possible. Debate team, top of the class, Valedictorian of his highschool and a perfect GPA. Saturo was the best option for you to get your grades up.
It wasn’t long since you left and you could already feel your phone buzzing in the pocket of your joggers. Pulling it out, you frowned at the message.
Hey, it's me, Toru. Can you come by my place instead of the library? I woke up late and think it'll be better.
The address he sent you was across campus, closer than the library but still a little weird. You shrugged, not really caring as you turned up the music in your headphones.
It hadn't take you long until you got to the address, you didn't even look up until you sent him a text and rang the doorbell.
"And who are you?"
You blinked as you looked at the person standing in front of you, the person who looked like the Saturo you were coming to see, but wasn't him at all.
Your brain was short-circuiting. You knew what Saturo looked like; you had seen him on campus before. He always wore sweater vests and these black rimmed frames that made him look cuter, but this guy standing in front of you was not Saturo Gojo.
He leaned against the doorframe in a fitted black tee and grey sweats. He had the same white hair but more messy, like he’d just woken up, eyes sharp and amused as they dragged slowly over you from head to toe.
"You're not Turo."
The look-alike smirked down at you. “I mean, you can call me Gojo if you want sweets."
"Seriously, what fucking universe did I get wharped into--"
"I told you not to answer the door."
Gojo stood up straighter at the voice that came from inside, the lookalike flashed you a smile before side stepping, giving you a perfect view of inside the house.
The space seemed familiar for some reason, but your eyes wandered over to Toru as he came down the stairs in a hoodie and jeans and his black rimmed frames.
"How could I not, little brother, I mean, I knew she was cute, but not this cute."
Your eyes had finally caught up with your brain.
Of course, they were fucking twins. How did you not know this?
Your gaze drifted past them, scanning the living room while your brain tried to reboot.
Your eyes landed on the banners on the wall.
The letters.
The couch.
The stupid neon sign near the kitchen.
Your brows furrowed slowly.
“Wait…”
You pointed toward the wall.
“This is Kappa Five—”
Both of them looked at you.
Your eyes widened as the pieces clicked together faster.
“This frat throws parties every Friday. I help plan half of these. I literally picked the theme for last month—”
“Oh yeah,” the twin said, grinning. “Thanks for the luau idea, by the way. Crowd loved that. Thinking of doing '90s vibe next week.”
He pushed himself off the wall and walked closer, holding his hand out.
“But let’s get introductions out of the way,” he said smoothly. “Gojo. Frat president. Campus favourite. Better-looking twin.”
You stared at his hand.
Then at his face.
Then at Satoru.
“…You didn’t tell me you lived in a frat house,” you said slowly.
Satoru adjusted his glasses, completely unfazed. “It’s technically off-campus housing.”
Gojo watched the way your brows furrowed, his smirk widening as he caught the look his brother gave you.
"Don't let me interrupt you two, go study. I'll see you around, sweets."
You wished you could say the twins didn’t take up most of your mind for the rest of the week.
But they did.
That one study session with Toru had your brain running laps around itself ever since. You kept replaying little moments you hadn’t thought about while you were actually there.
The way he leaned over your shoulder when he explained things.
The way his hand brushed yours when he passed you the pen.
The way his voice dropped when he told you to focus.
Satoru seemed like a sweetheart. Every time he saw you on campus, he’d give you that small nod of acknowledgement, the one that felt oddly personal even when other people were around.
Sometimes he’d stop you to hand over a sheet of notes.
Sometimes he’d text you reminders about assignments.
It was annoyingly thoughtful.
And yeah… you’d admit it.
You had a tiny crush on him.
Which, honestly, was the whole reason you asked him to tutor you in the first place.
You told Shoko it was about your grades, and technically it was. But it was also about getting an excuse to spend time with the quiet, ridiculously pretty nerd who looked like he belonged in a campus brochure.
That was before you realised he had a twin.
A twin who looked exactly like him but carried himself like he’d never heard the word no in his life.
They had both taken up permanent residence in that pretty little head of yours.
You heard about Frat president Gojo, you weren't stupid, you knew him by name, not what he looked like, not that Gojo was even his last name and certainly not that Saturo was his twin.
It was a miracle that you managed to pass your assignment; you don't even remember studying, but somehow you did, and now you were treating yourself by going to this party.
You added the finishing touches to your outfit, dabbing one last swipe of glossy berry lip stain across your bottom lip before smacking them together in the mirror.
The drink you’d taken earlier — a little liquid courage courtesy of Shoko- had definitely influenced tonight’s wardrobe choice.
Your top was smaller than you normally wore out, the fabric hugging your chest in a way that made it impossible not to notice. Your skirt sat high on your hips, short enough that every step showed off your legs.
90's theme was done perfectly, the pink leather skirt paired with a white tee that you had tied at the front had pushed your boobs up sky high. Your hair was sleeked back, half up, half down, showing off your big gold hoops, your neck bare except for the dainty gold chain with your initial sitting against your skin.
You had even taken it up a notch by adding shimmer to your skin, the cocobutter making the melanin in your skin pop.
“Yes. Just… yes.”
Shoko’s voice carried from where she was sprawled across your bed like she owned the place.
“You,” she declared, “are absolutely hopping on some dick tonight.”
“Shoko!” you screeched, whipping your hairbrush at her.
She dodged easily, laughing as it bounced harmlessly off the wall. Taking a slow drag from her cigarette, she exhaled a thin stream of smoke, her eyes glittering with mischief.
“What?” she said innocently. “I’m not wrong. You’re telling me you glittered your entire body just for a party?”
“It’s called taking pride in my appearance, Shoko,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “I like to look pretty.”
“Yeah,” she said flatly. “For dick.”
You groaned, grabbing the hairbrush off the floor and tossing it back onto your dresser.
“It’s a 90’s party.”
“Mhm.”
“That’s the theme.”
“Mhm.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Stop ‘mhm’-ing me. And you’re the one to talk—you look like you’re about to go prowling for females.”
“Oh, I am,” She said without missing a beat, flicking ash into the empty can on your nightstand. “Trust me, I’m doing body shots off someone’s tits tonight. But at least I’m open and honest about it. I’m not gonna judge you if you waxed your pussy for Gojo or Saturo—or oh my God. Both!?”
“W-what? No! Why would you say that?”
“Oh my God.” She sat up straighter, cigarette forgotten as her eyes lit up like Christmas lights. “It’s both. You want twin dicks. I have raised you right.”
You groaned, snatching your tiny crossbody purse off the dresser. The heat in your cheeks was probably visible from space, but you prayed the dim dorm lighting and your shimmer highlighter were doing their job.
You kissed your teeth as you told the brunette to hurry up and get out of your room. Shoko laughed behind you as the two of you made your way to the fraternity.
Your brain was fogged about the night; you didn't really know what to expect, you didn't know if Toru would be there, but he did live there.
Was it even his scene? He was the opposite of his brother; you couldn't understand it really. He lived at the frat house, but you couldn't remember seeing him at any of the parties, or maybe you were just too drunk to notice the difference before.
Toru was cute and smart, and Gojo was sexy and annoying. They looked exactly alike—same snow-white hair, same piercing ocean-blue eyes, same unfairly sharp jaw—but they couldn’t have been more different.
You barely had time to dwell on it before Kappa Five came into full view.
Music was already blasting out onto the front lawn, bass rattling the windows and spilling into the street. Clusters of people stood outside with red cups in their hands, laughing, shouting over the music.
“Oh look who it is,” a familiar voice called from the doorway. “Hey, pretty. Hey, Sho.”
You looked up to see Geto leaning against the doorframe, acting as the unofficial bouncer for the night. His long hair was pulled back into a loose bun, black tee stretched across his shoulders while he lazily checked people coming in.
You smiled.
“Hey, Geto.”
Shoko gave him a lazy two-finger salute as he stepped aside, letting you both through.
Inside, the house was already alive.
‘Scrubs’ blasted through the speakers, people singing along loudly as bodies moved through the living room. Someone had hung glow sticks along the banister, neon lights reflecting off the walls while the dance floor was already forming near the couch.
Your eyes immediately drifted toward the kitchen. Sure enough, a handful of frat boys were already gathered there, laughing over a half-set-up beer pong table. The counters were covered in bottles, mixers, and plastic cups.
You needed a drink.
“C’mon,” your friend said, gripping your wrist again, pushing through people as you reached the kitchen.
The moment you stepped in, you could feel people staring at you. It wasn't new; you always outdid yourself when it came to these parties, but for some reason, you felt a little self-conscious.
You couldn’t help it, your eyes scanned the room as you ignored the looks and they landed on him almost immediately.
Gojo was standing by the counter, white tee that looked absolutely slutty on him, blue jeans that hung low on his hips showing off the band of his Calvin Kleins. His white hair was buried under a black baseball cap that he had flipped backwards, and if it didn't make it harder, he was wearing that damn silver chain.
Your brain stalled for a second; it didn't take long for his head to turn, his blue eyes locking onto you across the kitchen.
The conversation he’d been having cut off mid-sentence.
Slowly, a grin spread across his face as his eyes scanned you, slowly from head to toe, like he was undressing every article of clothing on your body.
“Sweets,” he said when he reached you, voice low enough that it barely carried over the music.
Up close, his eyes flicked over you again, slower this time.
“Jesus,” he murmured.
You crossed your arms, trying to pretend your heart hadn’t just kicked up a gear.
"Are you guys doing welcoming shots?" Your head snapped toward Shoko, who had a shit-eating grin on her face.
Gojo chuckled in front of you, reaching over the counter to grab a clear bottle of reddish liquid.
"Open up."
Your brows furrowed as you tried to ignore the flutter in your puss, you raised your hand in front of you, the action immediately had Gojo's eyes on your chest.
"I'm not letting you pour anything down my throat--what is it?"
"My special punch, can only allow a seven-second guzzle of this, or you'll be knocked out. Trust me, you'll like it. Now open up sweets."
You eyed the bottle before turning to look at your friend, who nodded her head at you. You sighed as you stepped closer to the frat president, his finger tilting your chin up to meet his eyes as he tilted your head back.
Your lips parted before your mind caught up, your gaze locked on his as the bottle tipped forward. Cool liquid splashed past your tongue, the taste shockingly sweet, but you swallowed it down without breaking eye contact as the room counted down seven seconds.
Gojo’s eyes darkened, lingering on your mouth as the last drop slid past your lips. It didn't take long for the seconds to be over, but it felt like a lifetime in your own personal bubble.
Shoko tapped your ass as she yelled that it was her turn, but Gojo hadn't taken his eyes off your lips, and without thinking, your tongue darted out to lick the last remaining drop of the drink.
Gojo smirked at you before sending you a wink.
Yeah, you were in trouble.
At some point, Shoko had shoved a Jell-O shot into your hand, laughing when you made a face before downing it anyway.
Now the music was louder.
Or maybe you were just feeling it more.
Either way, the next thing you knew, you were standing on the ping-pong table in the middle of the living room with Shoko, the two of you laughing as you moved to the beat. The bass thumped through the floor, through your legs, through your chest as you danced together.
That was the thing about you: whenever you got drunk, you got handsy, and Shoko was always the victim of it.
Your hands were on her shoulders one second, then her waist the next as the two of you danced and laughed, grinding to the music while people cheered around you. Shoko didn’t care—she never did. If anything, she played into it, steadying you whenever you swayed too close to the edge of the table.
You could feel the stares on you, you just didn't know which blue eyes were staring.
"Alright, ladies, as much as we love to watch you two, we need the table. Beer pong game."
Shoko groaned dramatically. “You’re killing the vibe."
Choso shot her a quick wink before reaching up to help you down from the table. Once your feet hit the floor, you and Shoko immediately drifted toward the bar like magnets, both of you laughing as the crowd behind you erupted around the newly claimed beer-pong table.
“Another shot,” Shoko declared, already leaning over the counter.
She pulled out her phone, dragging you closer by the shoulder. She snapped a selfie of the two of you—hair a little messy, eyes bright, the party lights washing over your faces—right as you both tipped back the Jell-O shots.
She swallowed and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Okay babe,” she said, already scanning the room like a hunter, “now we need to find me a girl to do shots off of.”
You giggled, leaning against the bar as you followed her gaze out toward the dance floor. The crowd had thickened, bodies swaying together under flashing lights.
Then you spotted her.
A petite girl dancing with her friends, glancing over every few seconds like she’d been waiting for an invitation all night.
You nudged Shoko.
“That one.”
Shoko’s eyes locked on instantly.
A slow, satisfied grin spread across her face.
“Yeah,” she said confidently. “She’s definitely coming home with me.”
You laughed and leaned over to kiss her cheek before nudging her toward the dance floor.
“Go get her.”
She didn’t need to be told twice. She slipped straight into the crowd, already moving with the music as she made her way toward the girl.
You watched for a moment, shaking your head fondly before reaching into your purse and pulling out the bottle of water you kept there. You twisted the cap off and took a long drink.
You already knew how this would go.
Once Shoko locked onto someone, she’d be drinking like there was no tomorrow. Which meant you had to at least pretend to be the responsible one.
“You know,” a familiar voice drawled beside you, “Shoko’s basically an honorary frat bro at this point.”
You froze slightly, the bottle still pressed to your lips.
“She’s probably fucked just as many girls in this house as the rest of us.”
Slowly, you turned. Gojo leaned casually against the bar beside you, one elbow resting on the counter.
The spark in his bright blue eyes gave him away immediately.
You swallowed the mouthful of water you’d been holding and glanced back toward the dance floor. Shoko had already cornered the girl you’d pointed out earlier, the brunette’s hand braced against the wall while she talked close to the girl’s ear.
You couldn’t help the smirk that crept onto your lips.
Tilting your head, you looked back at him.
“So you’re openly admitting to being a hoe?”
Gojo pressed a hand dramatically to his chest, leaning closer to you with a mock expression of shock.
"I mean, there's no denying it, but trust me, I'm not the only one."
Your brows furrowed as he pointed into the crowd. You looked over at the beer pong set-up and saw Geto playing against his brother.
"Geto? Yeah, trust me you two are two peas in a--"
"Nah sweets, not that other half of me."
You continued to watch the game as Saturo got a ball into Geto's cup, the latter groaning as he chugged the drink down.
"As much as he's the other half of you, Gojo, Toru is a complete sweetheart. I don't even understand why he lives here."
Gojo laughed next to you, your legs clenching slightly at the sound.
"Sweetheart?"
You nodded as you still watched the game.
Gojoj hummed behind you, the hairs on the back of your neck stood up as you felt him press himself against you.
"Toru is probably worse than me, sweets, hides his drunkenness better as well. But I know my twin. Trust me."
"I-I don't believe you." You let out a shaky breath; his hands, now running down your arms, did nothing to ease your goosebumps.
"Yeah? If he wins this game, the winner does a body shot of the person of my choice. I'll let you see first-hand the real Toru."
You watched as the game continued. Geto had one last cup, and Toru had aimed the ball, and it landed perfectly in the opposite cup. You felt your breathing hitch as the crowd cheered. Gojo chuckled behind you, his hand now on your waist as he pushed you towards the crowd.
"I'd like to say well done, baby brother, but you're the reigning champion."
You snapped your head back to the tall man who looked down at you with a wicked smirk on his lips. He set you up.
Toru pushed his glasses up his face as he sent his brother a smirk that had your breathing hitching. Yes, they were twins, but this was the first time you've ever thought they were exactly the same.
Gojo nudged you towards the centre of the table, his brother's head tilting softly as he watched you, his brows furrowed as he looked to his older twin.
"Now, house rules, champion gets a trophy, and as it goes, my little brother picked his own trophies last time, so as Frat president, I have chosen his trophy for him."
The alcohol still buzzed warmly through your system, softening the edges of your nerves—but not enough to stop the embarrassment creeping up your neck.
You folded your arms over your chest instinctively, trying to look unimpressed. Toru’s eyes flicked downward for half a second before he quickly looked away again, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose like he’d been caught.
“Now,” Gojo said, clapping his hands once. “As per usual… it’s body shot time.”
The cheers from the crowd were instant and deafening, drowning out the music completely.
You barely had time to react.
“Wait—!”
Your protest turned into a startled yelp as Gojo’s hands found your waist and lifted you onto the tabld. The wood was cold against the backs of your thighs, your pink leather skirt riding up just enough to make you hyper-aware of every eye in the room. Gojo shot you a wink before grabbing Toru by his unravelled tie, yanking him forward.
Toru’s gaze had been glued to your chest the whole time Gojo was talking, but the second he was standing right in front of you—close enough that his knees bumped your dangling legs—his eyes snapped up to meet yours.
Gojo clapped a hand on his twin’s shoulder, grinning like the devil who just won the lottery. “Go on, champ. Salt. Tequila. Lime."
You felt your stomach dip as the crowd roared, you locked eyes with the blue-eyed nerd as you leaned back softly on your elbows. Toru seemd nervous at first but it was like something swicthed in him.
His hands went onto the fat of your thighs as he leaned closer to you.
It felt like it was only the two of you in the room, apart from the cheering crowd with all their phones out.
"Lie back for me, baby—” Toru’s voice was low, rougher than you’d ever heard it. “Yeah… just like that.”
You bit your lip hard to stop the moan that wanted to spill out as you reclined fully, elbows sliding until your back hit the table. Toru’s eyes darkened behind his glasses as he leaned closer, white hair falling forward, lips hovering just above your stomach.
His tongue flicked out, slowly circling the rim of your belly button piercing in a wet, teasing loop. Your stomach clenched hard, a sharp pulse of heat shooting straight between your legs.
Your breathing laboured as you watched Gojo now lean over you and add some salt to where his brother had just licked. His smirk deepened at the sound of your gasp as he poured tequila onto your boobs and down your cleavage. The golden liquid added a shimmer against your brown skin as the rest trailed down to the waist of your leather skirt.
You looked up at the older twin through your lashes as he held a lime wedge to your lips.
"Open up sweets." That was the third time those words passed his lips
You swore you heard one or maybe both of them groan as you took the wedge between your lips as you lay flat against the table.
It didn't take long for Toru's tongue to find your skin again.
His tongue flicked in slow, deliberate circles around your belly button, lapping up every grain of salt with careful reverence. Your stomach clenched hard, every nerve lighting up at the wet heat of him. Your panties were soaked through now, fabric clinging uncomfortably, the ache between your thighs building with every pass of his mouth.
Your eyes stayed locked on him as his lips began to drift higher. Soft kisses trailed up the centre of your abdomen, tongue following the glistening path of tequila that had dripped down your sternum. He moved unhurried, savouring, breathing hot against your skin. Your thighs clenched on instinct, trying to trap the pressure, but his hands stayed firm; they somehow kept your legs from closing but also held the edge of your skirt so you didn't flash anyone.
How could he be sweet and torturous at the same time?
Your breathing turned ragged—shallow, uneven pants you couldn’t control.
It felt like forever as his face disappeared into your cleavage next. His mouth, sucking softly at the skin there, you had to hold the whimper that tried to escape your lips. The lime wedge was still clenched between your teeth, citrus burning your tongue, but you barely noticed.
Your eyes flickered up to Gojo whos ocean blues were now pitch black as he watched his brother.
You almost forgot what was going on until Toru's lips were against yours. The kiss slow but somehow sweet as he sucked on your tongue before taking the line wedge into his own mouth.
Toru broke from your lips, his glasses were fogged, white hair a mess, cheeks flushed dark red. He looked wrecked—beautifully, completely wrecked.
The crowd cheered as he helped you up. You felt dizzy, lightheaded, like the only thing keeping you grounded was the way Toru’s thumbs kept stroking small circles over your hipbones.
Gojo’s laugh was low and dark beside you. Toru’s eyes flicked to his twin—then back to you. Something raw and possessive flashed in them.
“Told you,” he murmured, leaning in until his lips brushed your ear. “He’s worse.”
You wanted to say that you let Shoko take you home, that you sobered up and got the hell out of there, but you would be lying.
Because now, now you were pressed against Toru's door with Gojo's mouth hot on yours, one of his hands cradling the back of your neck while the other gripped your hip like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.
Across the room, Toru sat on his bed, legs spread wide, elbows on the armrests. His glasses on the bridge of his nose as he watched the two of you.
Gojo broke the kiss just long enough to drag his open mouth down the side of your throat—teeth grazing the spot he’d watched his brother mark earlier with a hickey that was already blooming dark. You gasped, head tipping back against the wood, and he took it as permission: his free hand slid under your knotted white tee, palm flattening over your stomach before travelling higher to cup your breast. His thumb brushed your nipple through the thin fabric and pinched just hard enough to make your hips jerk forward.
Toru shifted slightly, your eyes met his—dark, dilated, almost black behind the rimmed glasses—and something inside you clenched hard. Your thighs rubbed together on instinct, trying to ease the ache, but it only made it worse. You were clenching around nothing, slick and desperate, and the fact that Toru was just sitting there, watching his twin unravel you—made it a thousand times hotter.
“She’s so responsive,” Toru said quietly, voice low and rough, like he’d been holding the words in his throat for hours.
Gojo laughed against your neck, then bit down gently on the same spot he’d just kissed.
“She is,” he agreed, voice muffled against your skin. “Look at her thighs shaking already. Barely touched her and she’s dripping.”
Your cheeks burned, but you didn’t deny it. Not when Toru’s gaze dropped deliberately to where your skirt had ridden up, where your thighs were pressed together, trying to hide how wet you were.
Toru leaned forward slightly, elbows still braced, fingers flexing on the armrests.
“Show me,” he said—soft, almost polite, but the command underneath made your stomach flip. “Let me see how wet she is.”
Gojo didn’t hesitate. Your positions now switched, your back pressed against his chest as he kicked your legs apart before pushing your skirt higher until it bunched around your waist. Then he hooked two fingers into the soaked lace of your panties and tugged them aside.
Cool air hit you first, raising goosebumps along your thighs, then Gojo's fingers slid through your folds, parting them with ease. He gathered your slick on his fingertips, circling your swollen clit before dipping just inside your entrance, shallow enough to tease but not satisfy. The intrusion made you whine, hips bucking involuntarily toward his hand.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your ear, his voice a low rasp that sent shivers down your spine. His thumb pressed firmer on your clit now, rubbing in tight circles that had your walls clenching around nothing.
You moaned, eyes rolling back softly as the pressure built, Gojo’s teasing touch igniting sparks that spread through your core. His free hand gripped your hip, holding you steady against him while he continued to flick over your nub.
Toru adjusted his glasses, the motion casual, but his eyes burned with hunger. “You sure she likes that? Think she can moan louder than that,”
Gojo chuckled, the sound vibrating against your neck, "You telling me how to fuck a girl now?"
Toru squinted at his brother, a sharp hiss escaping through his teeth as irritation flickered across his face. He shifted like he might stand and take over, but Gojo just laughed softly and waved him off with a wink, his free hand squeezing your hip to keep you pinned against him.
Your moans spilt out louder now, filling the room with raw need as Gojo's fingers scissored inside you, stretching your tight walls with deliberate spreads that made your slick drip down his wrist. He groaned low in his throat at the feel of your warmth gripping him, velvety and insistent. Fuck, he couldn't wait to bury his cock in you—the thought flashed through his mind, making his own dick twitch hard against his jeans.
Toru couldn't help but adjust himself, the sounds of your moans and the sounds of your pussy filling the room had him straining against his jeans.
Your head spun from Gojo’s relentless taunts, each filthy word twisting the coil in your belly tighter, fresh arousal coating his knuckles as you rocked against his hand. “Gojo... oh god,” you gasped, one hand fisting his hair while your eyes landed on Toru. But the minute your high started it crashed down, Gojo removed his fingers for you, a whine tearing through your lips as he shushed you.
He had edged you, your thighs were shaky, your pussy clenching and pushing around. You were so close but he snatched it away from you.
Gojo had begun peppering kisses against your neck, your head lulling to the side. Toru clicked his tongue, your eyes snapping open to meet his.
"Come here."
You stalled at the command, your mind still foggy from the orgasm and Gojo's lips still on your skin.
“Careful,” Gojo chucked, nudging you gently forward. “My brother gets curious when he’s interested in something.”
You hesitantly walked toward the younger twin, Toru tilted his head slightly as you stepped between his thighs—his gaze soft but burning, pupils blown behind fogged glasses. His long fingers hooked into the waistband of your pink leather skirt and tugged it down in one slow, deliberate motion, taking your soaked panties with it.
You held his stare the entire time, legs trembling but refusing to buckle as you stepped out of the crumpled fabric. The air felt cooler against your slick skin, but the heat radiating from his body more than made up for it.
It didn't take long for him to place his lips onto yours, the kiss soft as he pulled you closer to him. His hands slid up the backs of your thighs, guiding you closer until your knees sank into the mattress on either side of his hips. You straddled his lap naturally, your bare pussy settling against the hard ridge of his cock still trapped behind his jeans. The friction made you both groan into the kiss.
You rocked against him, needy rolls of your hips that dragged your clit along the length of him through the fabric. Toru’s breath hitched against your mouth; his fingers flexed on your ass like he was fighting not to flip you over and take you right then.
He broke the kiss first, a thin string of saliva stretching between your lips before snapping. His eyes were dark as they locked on yours.
Then he pulled you higher.
“Sit,” he said simply.
Your breath caught. “Toru—”
“Sit,” he repeated, softer this time, almost pleading. His fingers dug into your ass, spreading you open. “Please. Want to taste you.”
How could you deny him? Your thighs shook as you went to lower your pussy over his face. He quickly turned you, your body facing Gojo, who was sans shirt, his jeans unbuckled and pushed low enough to free his hard cock, which he stroked lazily as he manspread wide, eyes locked on you with that fucking smirk.
The first touch of his tongue against your clit, drew a broken cry from your lips as your hips bucked forward on instinct. He groaned into you like he’d been starving, the vibration ripping another whimper from your throat. His tongue pressed flat and broad, lapping from your soaked entrance up to your throbbing clit in one long, deliberate drag, savouring every drop of your arousal. Then he zeroed in, circling the swollen nub with rapid, insistent flicks that made your toes curl against the mattress.
Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut for a second—until Gojo’s low, amused voice cut through the haze.
“Eyes on me, sweets.”
Your gaze snapped to him, teeth sinking into your lower lip as you ground down against Toru's face. A fresh whimper escaped when his nose bumped right against your clit, his tongue swiping broad and messy through your folds, while you watched Gojo keep fisting his thick cock, veins bulging under his grip, precum beading at the tip and dripping down his knuckles.
"Don't hide those pretty noises, sweets," Gojo drawled, "Toru's a quick study—tell him what you like. Moan it out so he can bury that tongue deeper in your sloppy cunt."
Your eyes rolled slightly as his hands clamped down on your thighs, spreading you wider, holding you pinned over his mouth. He sucked your clit between his lips with a wet pop, rolling it gently at first, then harder, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp and buck. His tongue plunged inside you next, fucking in and out with filthy, twisting strokes that stretched your walls and hit every sensitive ridge. You could feel his chin slick with your juices, his breaths coming hot and ragged against your skin as he devoured you, alternating between spearing deep and lashing your clit until your thighs quivered uncontrollably.
It didn't take long for Toru to bully his fingers into you, squealing. You leaned forward, your back arching, he pumped them in sync with his licks, scissoring to open you up, the squelching sounds obscene as your arousal coated his hand. The pressure built fast and brutal in your gut, coiling tighter with every thrust, every flick, your hips rolling wildly now as you chased it, moans spilling free and loud just like Gojo wanted.
"Yes—fuck, Toru, right there!" His fingers hooking harder, his mouth sucking your clit like he aimed to bruise it. It hit you like a freight train—your vision whiting out, body seizing as the orgasm shattered through you, walls clamping down on his fingers in violent spasms. You screamed, gushing over his tongue and hand, your release soaking his face and dripping down his neck. He didn't stop, lapping and fingering you through it, drawing out every pulse until you were a trembling, sobbing mess, oversensitive and boneless.
Toru finally pulled back, lips glistening, glasses fogged and crooked as he licked his fingers clean with a satisfied growl. "Taste so fucking good," he rasped, your body felt lightweight as you came down from your orgasm, but they didn't even give you any time to adjust.
Tour slapped your ass, red blooming your brown skin as you groaned, he turned you over to face him, your back arched as he put you on all fours--knees sinking into the sheets.
Your eyes adjusted softly as you watched him unbutton his shirt and pull his jeans down. Your eyes widened as you caught the size of him. He smiled down at you, his fingers coming to run in your hair, almost like he was comforting you.
"Don't worry, baby, I'll fuck you later-- but you gotta be good for Gojo, yeah?" A needy moan slipped out as you felt Gojo behind you, gathering your slick on his cockhead, rubbing it teasingly through your soaked folds. He dragged the fat tip up and down your slit, bumping your oversensitive clit until your hips twitched back, begging without words.
"Such a greedy little hole," Gojo chuckled darkly, his hands spreading your ass cheeks wide to expose you fully. "Still dripping from Toru's tongue—bet you're aching to get stuffed full." Without another warning, he lined up and slammed in, burying every inch of his throbbing cock deep inside your clenching pussy. The stretch burned so good, your walls fluttering around him as he bottomed out, balls pressing flush against your skin. You cried out, the sound muffled as Toru guided your head forward, tapping his cock against your open lips.
"Open up," you wrap your lips around his girth and sucking him in with a wet slurp, your tongue swirling over the pulsing veins as you bob forward, taking him deeper until he hits the back of your throat. Gojo didn't hold back, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he started pounding into you from behind, each snap of his hips jolting you forward onto Toru's dick, forcing you to gag and drool around him.
"Fuck, listen to that—" Gojo groaned, leaning over your back to nip at your shoulder. His cock dragged against every ridge inside you, the head kissing your cervix with every deep plunge, while his fingers dug into your ass, spreading you wider for the filthy view. Spit trailed from your mouth as you hollowed your cheeks, sucking Toru off with sloppy, desperate pulls, your hand wrapping around the base to stroke what you couldn't swallow. He tangled his fingers tighter in your hair, fucking your face in shallow thrusts that matched Gojo's rhythm, grunting as your throat squeezed him.
"That's it, baby," Toru growled, his free hand reaching down to pinch your nipple, twisting until you whimpered around him. The dual assault had your body on fire—Gojo's balls slapping wetly against your clit, building that pressure again, your pussy gushing around his length with every withdraw.
Gojo's dark chuckle rumbled through the room, echoing the wet symphony of skin slapping skin—the relentless plap, plap, plap of his hips driving into you, mixed with the obscene shlurp of your mouth working Toru's cock. Fuck, the noises you made were so pretty.
"You want to cum again, sweets? Milk my dick while you swallow Toru's load?" The words sent you spiralling, your moans vibrating up Toru's shaft as the coil in your belly snapped. You shuddered around Gojo's cock, walls convulsing in tight spasms, soaking his thighs as you screamed muffled cries, body shaking between them. He didn't stop, fucking you through the waves, chasing his own release with harder, erratic thrusts.
Toru came first, his hips bucking as he flooded your mouth with hot spurts of cum, holding you down until you swallowed every drop, excess dribbling down your chin. "Good girl—fuck, so obedient," he panted, pulling out to smear the last bits over your lips. Gojo followed seconds later, pulling out as he spilt over your ass. The contrast of his white cum against your brown skin had him groaning at the sight.
Your limbs gave out, body crumpling into the sheets, mind lost in a thick fog of bliss and exhaustion, every nerve humming from the overload. Toru shifted, scooping you up against his chest, his glasses still crooked as he pressed lazy kisses to your temple. One hand stroking down your back while the other cupped your breast, thumb circling the pebbled nipple in soothing swirls.
You could hear Gojo moving around behind you, but you were to exhuasted to open your eyes. The soft hum of Toru's voice murmured against your body.
"Go back to the party, wanna fuck my prize in peace now."
You could hear his brother's laughter, his hand coming down onto your ass, "Don't break her lil bro."
Welcome to the Frat Boy Chronicles! In this event, we will follow anime characters through their university lifestyles. Black-coded female in mind, but anyone can read or write their own. This event has no rules, just tag me if you find the creativity to write and post your fic, tag #fratboychronicles and I'll reblog and add it to this masterlist!
This will be 18+, so if you're not of legal drinking age or above, please find the door x
If you don't see any of your favs, be free to still write them!
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. the daughters name is pronounced eye-lah.
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 surprised laugh, recounting your own words of your husband—“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—now playing around 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.
Hello everyone! My name is Arriah. I’m a 19-year-old Black reader who spends way too much time bouncing between different fandoms. I’m in everything from K-pop, anime, and video games to The Last of Us, Harry Potter, and honestly whatever else catches my interest. If there’s a fandom, chances are I’ve probably wandered into it at some point.
Since it’s Women’s History Month, I wanted to take a moment to show some appreciation and highlight some of my favorite Black women writers on this app. Fanfiction spaces can sometimes feel overwhelming, but the creativity, talent, and passion that Black women bring into these spaces deserve recognition and support.
Black writers constantly create stories that make fandoms feel more inclusive, more relatable, and more alive. Whether it’s through fluffy comfort fics, emotional slow burns, hilarious character interactions, or even chaotic late-night posts that make everyone laugh, their work adds so much to these communities. A lot of the time, these writers are putting their time, energy, and creativity into stories simply because they love the fandom and want to share that love with others.
Unfortunately, Black writers don’t always receive the same level of recognition or engagement that they deserve. That’s why I wanted to dedicate this post to uplifting some of the amazing Black women whose writing I enjoy and appreciate. Their stories have entertained me, comforted me, and made being part of these fandom spaces even more fun.
So throughout this post, I’ll be sharing some of my favorite Black writers here. If you’re looking for new creators to follow, new stories to read, or just want to support talented Black women in fandom spaces, I definitely recommend checking them out and showing them some love.
Happy Women’s History Month, and thank you to all the Black women writers who continue to share their creativity and passion with us. Your work matters, and it deserves to be celebrated.
FYI this will be multiple parts filled with many different fandoms if you see some that aren’t on here let me know and I will add them or just drop your favorites down in the comments
Sit back, relax, and tune in to our favorite cleaner 💛
Songs:
Doin’ It by LL Cool J
Walking into your living room, you were going through different jewelry box. Enjin, watching tv smoked his cigarette when you walked in. Shirtless and hair down, which was rare, his eyes drifted over to you.
“Watcha got there?” He asked as smoke bellowed out from his nostrils.
Stopping beside the couch, you show him.
“I bought these new pair of earrings and I can’t decide between the two.” You said as you held them up.
“Which one would you pick?” You placed them up to your shirt to help. Rolling his eyes and being exaggerating, he leans up to flick the ash into the ash tray.
“You’re seriously having trouble with something this small?” He chuckled as he leaned back.
“Just answer the question, Enjin. One or Two?”
He looked between the two before pointing at the pair in your right hand.
“Those right there. They match your eyes.” He answered before placing the cigarette back up to his lips. Looking at the pair, you smile before turning to leave.
“Thanks for the help!” You called back.
“Yeah, yeah.” He mutters.
Putting the earrings on, you put the small box up. Changing into a pair of shorts and cropped top, you grab your phone and go back downstairs. Stopping by the kitchen, you grab a soda from the fridge before heading back into the living room.
Seeing you walk in, he watches as you sit onto the other couch across the room. Slow streams of fog flow out from his lips as he stares at you.
“Why’re you sittin’ over there?” He asked while watching you doom scroll through your phone.
“Because I can?” You said.
“Naw, c’mon over here. I wanna hold ya.”
When you didn’t get up, he squinted his eyes at you. He kept staring at you as he smoked the rest of his cigarette. The bright end glowing against his fingers, he laughed with amusement. Shifting slightly, he reaches down to adjust the growing tent in his pants.
“Ya heard me, mama. C’mere.” He repeated. The corners of your lips were struggling to hold your smile back. Not moving an inch, you keep your eyes on the bright screen of your phone. You could feel the holes his eyes were burning into your head.
“Ight.” He started to sit up, until you finally stood up from the couch. Observing your movements, he leaned back against the plush fabric. As soon as you made your way towards him, his hands reached for your hips. Pulling you down into his lap, he gruffed out lowly.
“There, ya happy now?” You leaned back against his chest. A hand motioned to the front of your body, his fingers tampering with the jewel sparkling and hanging from your naval. With a grin twitching at the corner of his lips, he takes you in.
“No, but you know what will make me happy?” You felt his warm breath against your skin, causing a shiver to run through your body.
“What?” You felt the small kiss he placed against the back of your ear before his hands went back to gripping your hips. Pulling you back enough to feel him poking between your legs.
“Those pretty lips wrapped around my dick.” He whispered against your ear. Rocking up against you while moving your hips down, he cups your pussy. Feeling the warmth from his larger hand had you leaking and seeping through the fabric of your panties.
“I think she wants a little play too. Whatcha think, huh?” He whispered. The placement of your hands on top of his, your hold tightened.
“Jin…” You mumble.
“Yeah?” Having you melt against him, he kept touching you in your favorite spots. Once he felt the sticky mess through your shorts, he leaned up against your back.
“On the floor, right now.” He stood up while you positioned yourself on your knees. Facing him, he took out another cigarette from his pocket before placing it up to his lips. Picking up the lighter from beside the ashtray, he lit the tip before tossing it back onto the coffee table.
With your hands in front of your body, you stared up at him. Gazing down at you, he took a hit before letting his hands fall to his side.
“Go on.” He nodded. Reaching up, you tug at the strings, untying them. Placing the cigarette in his mouth, he helped you pull his sweats down. You gasped when his dick sprung free. It bounced a little, and looked heavy. He was going commando the whole day which made your skin tint red.
Snickering, swirling smog curled around his face and into the air. Scooting closer, you touch it. Feeling it throb in your hands had you pulsing against the wet fabric between your thighs. Leaning forward, you kiss the tip before licking it.
Hissing at you kitty licking, his hand outstretches to hold the back of your head.
“Take ‘em in, ma.” With your tongue already out and with a pool of saliva sitting in the middle, you tap him against it. “Mmm”
“Shit, stop playin’ around.” Having teased him a bit, you wrap your lips around the head and suck. Swirling your tongue around the slit, your hands stroke him up.
“Fu-ah!” Taking your time, you take him in inch by inch. Moving your hands back to the floor, you gag before pulling back. Licking your lips, you lick and kiss around the base before taking him back into your mouth. He watched with bated breaths. “Mmpf…”
“Damn, you’re… swallowing me whole… be a good girl ‘n make that shit wet and sloppy f’me.” He guides your head along as he grunts and moans. Cigarette long forgotten, he tosses it into the ashtray. His hips matches the slow movement of your slurps and sucks, fucking your face.
“Ya know, for a small thing… you sure-, ah! Fuck… sure know how to handle this dick.” Picking up the pace, he twitches and throbs in the back of your throat. Pulling your head more and more, you gag when he buries your face against his pelvis.
“Shit!” Moaning, you tap at his leg, chocking. “M-mmm…. Hmmmm!” Swallowing each rope of cum that spurts out, he holds you there until he’s done. Pulling back, you take a sharp breath before coughing. Getting your breathing under control, you carefully stand up. You were about to wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, before he stopped you. Leaning down, he captured your lips.
The wet smack of your lips together fill the room. Now semi hard, he pulls you closer, hands gripping at your ass, as he tongues you down.
“Mmm, go upstairs and get that toy you like to use on my pussy.” Pulling back from the kiss, he pats your ass lightly before letting you go. As per say, you do as told before coming back downstairs.
As time passed, you were a mess. Your thighs tremble around his hand as he held the vibrator against your clit. You lost count of how many times you’ve cum. He was relentless as he toyed with you.
“Uhn-uhn, stop movin’” He murmured against your chest as he swirled his tongue around your nipple. Your hand tugs at his blonde strands as your body tenses and unfolds.
“J- Jiiiiin~, Baby, mmmm…” turning up the settings, your body arches up. Rubbing slow, tight circles around the slick mess between your thighs, he drags it up your body. Placing it at your naval, he teases it before moving it back down. “Squirt f’me, ma. Make her talk back some more.”
“Enjin, I can’t.” He slid it down between your dripping wet folds before slipping the head of the vibrator inside. Angling it up right, he touches and rubs against your g-spot. “Yes you can. She has so much to say to me.” He licked his way up between your tits as he tortured your body nicely. “I wanna know what else she has to discuss.” He whispered hotly.
Not letting up, you felt the pressure in your lower stomach building quickly. Tilting your head back against the carpet, he kisses the shivers away in the crook of your neck. “E- jinnnn, baby stop… stop, fuck!”
“Nuh-uh, come on.” His eyes flicker down between your thighs. Seeing you flutter because of the stimulation, he lets go of the handle. Using his middle and index fingers, he rubs your clit as he tilts your head back up. Kissing you messily, you scratch at his inked skin. Silencing your moans, he grunts when he feel you soaking his fingers. Breaking the kiss, he laughs breathlessly as he watches as streams of your essence splatter against your inner thighs, the vibrator, the carpet below, and his hand.
“A-ah, mhmmm, fuuuck!”
Prolong the pleasure for a moment long by tapping your swollen/sensitive clit, he reach down to turn the vibrator off. A soft plop sound is heard as he removes the silicone toy. Kissing your neck, he brings his fingers up before taking them into his mouth. You had tears streaming down your face as you laid there on the living room floor, a wet, nasty dripping mess.
“Mmm, pussy always tastes so sweet when she’s done cryin’.”
I have been thinking about this man all day, and decided to share my thoughts. Happy kinktober and enjoy!!!
Sometimes it was best not to answer Enjin's dumb questions—sometimes it ends in an argument—and other times…well.
“A-ah-!” It ends with the life being squeezed from you by a big, beefy, tatted arm in the world's filthiest position. His words spiraled in your ear, while your spine curved to his will. Your head was lost in the clouds, all you could think about was what Enjin was saying to you while he drilled your shit into the bed like he was trying to break it.
Your pussy throbbed; words meant nothing in that moment, just the feeling of his bicep flexing around your neck, at every soppy thrust he delivered to your puffy hole.
“Mm, can you breathe, pretty girl?” you let out a strangled moan, feeling his tip smack your G-spot. “Good~You feel so good when you can’t breathe-” He pulled your head back, cutting off your circulation, groaning when your pussy tightened, “J-just like that~”
You were losing it, your hands were shaking, clutching the sheets, struggling to breathe. Oh, Enjin was evil, watching your eyes go white, mouth open, drooling onto his tattoos. Enjin was shaking. You were sucking his dick so good that he started contemplating doing this to you more often.
You were ten times sluttier and ten times hornier when you couldn’t breathe—only when your grip on his sheets started to fail, and your body felt more ragdoll than human—did he let you breathe, releasing you to the sheets, slowing down to let you catch your breath.
He slapped your ass, making you wince, “C’mon, that all you got girl?”
He pushed his cock deeper, smooshing his leaky tip against your sweet spots. You whined, trying to push him away. Your hand pushed up against his sweaty abs, moaning when he grabbed it and forced it behind your back. “Uh-uh, take this dick.”
You tried to free your arm, throwing your ass back on him against your will, Enjin purred. He placed his free hand beside your head, angling his cock so he could drive his hips into your ass—your pussy squelched—thoughts gone, hips betraying you.
The air was filled with the melodic sounds of your sloppy pussy creaming around his girthy length. Anyone walking past would definitely hear you getting your pussy defiled by this aggressive ass man.
He pulled your hair, angling your head back so your filthy moans bounced against the walls and deep into his ears. Your ass was bouncing off his hips in pretty waves; it was mesmerizing. He pulled your ass apart, half-lidded golden jewels focused on the way his tatted dick slid in and out of your creamy hole. He threw his head back, “f-fuck, talk me through it, baby, talk me through that shit, tell me how good it is-”
Your thoughts were wasted, but your mouth was rambling, “sssooo good! So- nngh~ d-deep~”
“That's right, touch yourself f’me.” Your hand slid between your sweaty legs, pressing your shaky fingers on your puffy clit, melting into the sheets, moaning his name in broken mantras. You could feel his dick sliding against your walls, making you squeal. You felt your orgasm building like a wall, and before you could warn him, you were shattering, “o-oh my fuccckkk!”
Enjin felt you tighten, your arm stiffened, muscles spasming. Enjin dragged it out, throwing you into the second orgasm that had you whining, “Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck-”
He held you there, dragging his cock against your burning walls, listening to your pussy sob, “Awee did she cum again~ do it again, I wanna feel that again-”
He was thrusting into you like a madman, losing whatever restraint he had and pushing your ribcage into the bed—leeeeaaaannninggg alllll the way down—until your ass was high in the air, and nothing stopped you from the back and forth back and forth motions he set for you at a rabid pace.
“Tight l-lil lady- awee are you gonna cum again? For the third time in a row~”
He was acting like a dog, begging you for a response your body refused to give, your eyes were lost, and Enjin had you pinned. Somewhere between your second orgasm, something broke in him that just felt too good.
He leaned closer, dragging your hips up until his lips were on your ear, telling you the most sinful shit he could to drag you over the edge, “C’monn, pretty mama, do it again, go ova’ the edge f’me one more time so I can send you back over that bitch again- *thrust* and again- *thrust* and a fuckin’-gain-”
You had this man crying, tears of pure pleasure and joy rolling down his cheeks, collecting at the sides of his shaky lips, forced into the sexiest grin. If you could turn around, see Enjin's face, cheeks, and ears flushed red, all fucked out, sweat-drenched. Eyes lost in the lady pleasure, crawling up his spine and coaxing him to let go of an orgasm he’s long been overdue for.
A sinful moan left his lips. Your pussy was too much, and the worst part was that she wouldn’t let go. His tip felt like it was going to explode inside of you if you kept cleanching like that—like he begged for—he was burning through his stamina all for you.
“More bitch, c’monnn she got more to give- you keep fu-fuckin’ playin’, and y-you won’t leave this bed a-alive.” he bit your ear, making you whine—oh, he just didn’t know you wanted to cum again so bad—your hips were stuttering, trying to keep up with the way he fucked you back savage, trying to create that same rhythm that could put you through it again.
But it just wasn’t hitting the same; something was missing, and you were getting irritated.
Enjin sees it, the way your body struggles for release, the frustration was evident. You were begging him for help, and he knew just how to help you. His lips dragged against the shell of your ear, “You want it in a headlock, don’t you?”
You nodded frantically, turning your head to the side to meet his watery gaze. His eyes looked like sunsets over an ocean; they were so heavenly. You stuck your lip out, batting away pearly tears, “P-please~♡”
His eyes widened, whispering, “Fuck, why do you do this to me?” kissing the side of your temple before slithering his arm around your neck, pulling you back against his chest, squeezing your pudge with his other hand.
His grip tightened, and on cue, your pussy tightened, drooling on his sheets. Enjin kissed the top of your head, grinding his hips in deep thrusts that left you speechless.
It felt so good; his body melted into yours, waves of pleasure crashing down on the two of you as the evening fanned over outside of it all. Nothing mattered more than the way you were being held, the way his weight cushioned you against the sheets—his breath synced with yours, caressing your silky walls. Soul-tied.
Where your hand reached, his other followed, dragging up your hips, and down your arm, dragging your hand back to your side. “Mm-mm-’ he shook his head gently, “Don’t run from it, baby m’so close don’t run~”
His thrusts grew desperate, dragging you up the bed, your head fell on the sheets, whispering his name, “M’so close, and only you do that to me~”
Enjin babbled to you, running his mouth into your neck, “pleasemebabypleaseme~” the headboard hit the wall in a lazy rhythm, the room smelled like you and him, melting your brain down like butter, getting lost in his words, nodding mindlessly, “Yeah? You’ll please me, baby? Nod your head, keep telling me yes~”
Even if you wanted to stop, you were too far gone to think right, nodding to make your man happier than he already was. Enjin shuddered—he knew he was close to the end—and he made sure you got every last inch of it before he was done with you.
His grip around your neck was mind-numbing, cutting the circulation to your brain, making you dizzy, “Filthy, filthy, filthy pussy, filthy woman—so greedy, you b-both so fuckin’ greedy-”
Plap~! Plap~! Plap~!
Oops, there goes the last of your sanity, “E-enj-!”
“Ah ah, you shouldn’t be able to speak t’me pretty, looks like I-m’not doin’ a good job at choking you, huh?”
The knot in your stomach was burning, you could feel the ropes start to snap, the tighter his grip got, the harder it got to breathe, the tighter your pussy got, the looser his mouth and mind got, “Fuucck~! You want it? You want it, don’t you? Nod- atta girl, nod that pretty head and tell big bad Enjin whatchu want~”
His hand slid down between you, rubbing your clit sensually—if you could process a single thought, you’d notice his fingers spelling E-N-J-I-N in sloppy cursive. Making this grown ass man giggle, shameless.
If you had half a mind right then, he knew you’d call that shit sexy and probably beg him to do it again, fuck you were his girl—all his. Your pussy contracted, words were strangled gasps, as his dick dug into your spongy walls.
Your clit was buzzing, you were shaking in his hands, orgasm slamming into you like a freight train.
You gasped, muscles tightening, dragging the sheets off their edges and crumpling them in front of your weeping face. It was too much; he was too close, your body was giving in to him and gravity, and after three brutal thrusts, Enjin slammed into you, groaning.
You felt something warm fill your cunt, overflowing down the sides of his shaft. Enjin sighed, letting his weight fall on you, “Tha-*huff*that’s it, baby, relax f’me~𖹭”
The two of you stayed like that for a while before Enjin slid off to the side of you. Pulling you close to him, kissing your forehead. “I’m thinkin’ we do that again when you can feel your legs, yeah?”
You couldn’t even nod, just hummed along to his words, drifting off to sleep.
𖹭
A/N: lowkey kinda nervous~ this one took a second cause I hit a frickin' writer's block, so exscuseee the pacinggg~ ALSO, who else saw Enjin and went C'MERE WEATHER BOY!? CAUSE WHOOO CHILE!!!
The twins! There’s nerdjo 🤭and then there’s fratjo too ig, I was really excited when i saw nerdjo trending so I grabbed the opportunity to draw him hehe
