𝐤𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥'𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐲 @krys4h - Tumblr Blog

𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞,

౨ৎ 𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫.

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬◞﹒୧ . As an nationally renowned attorney married to a wealthy businessman, you have everything you need to be happy. However, you're not. You never wanted this. When your mother wants to force you to have children, you realize your life has been stolen. Depressed, you get drunk in a bar, contemplating the disaster of your life. But everything changes when you meet Eren, a rapper who offers you what you've always wanted: to feel free. The attraction is immediate and Eren turns your daily life upside down. Until everything falls apart because of the most dangerous feeling of all: love.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬◞﹒୧ . 18.8k words, black!fem!reader, plus!size!reader, westafrican!reader, capeverdean!reader, rapper!eren, happens in los angeles, angst, hurt, romance, good girl x bad boy, opposite attract, older!reader, age gap (33 & 24), pet names (baby, ma'am, ma’), forbidden romance, falling in love, christian!reader, cheating, music, trauma, family pressure, fear of abandonment, abortion, smut, oral sex, vaginal fingering, vaginal penetration, degradation, rough sex, hair pulling, spit in mouth, fingers sucking, doggy style, spanking, spoon position, squirting, bittersweet ending.

𝐤𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬◞﹒୧ . [repost + edited] i was so embarrassed of this one lmfao, bc tf you mean eren was a jazz rapper, i was CRAZY!!! this version is way better !!! hope you will like it <3

Sade played in the jazz bar, creating a soft and sensual atmosphere. The sound of customers laughing with their friends, the shuffling of wooden stools, and the bartender's shaker with rolled-up sleeves as he poured drinks filled the room. Dim red lights shone across your face as you held your head in your hands, sobbing aloud at a far-flung table, alone.

You weren't the type to let yourself get so overwhelmed by emotions like that. You were a powerful, confident woman who, at 33, was the best attorney in Los Angeles. Everyone was intimidated by you, your quick wit, and your discipline in your work. You inspired respect wherever you went.

You were ashamed. You hated drinking because it made you lose control of your 'proper persona', which you had to maintain for appearances. You sniffled and took another sip of alcohol. The bitter liquid burned your esophagus; you had chosen the strongest liquor to forget your problems.

Your hair slicked back into an afro puff, your mascara dripped down your face and ruined your light, professional makeup. The red blush you had applied this morning had dissipated the second you burst into tears because of your mother.

“We've given you enough time for your career, now you have to have children. You're over thirty! After everything we've done for you, you want to end the family line? You're our only child!”

Your tears intensified as you recalled the scene, and an ungainly trickle of snot slid down your nose. Your curly locks escaped from your bun as your hands clutched your head in despair.

“My life is a disaster, what have I done with my life so far? I’m such a failure,” you muttered, your voice hoarse.

“Can you stop crying? You're not alone here.”

A deep masculine voice made you look up. Tall and muscular, a man was leaning toward you. As if he'd just stepped out of the gym, he wore a compression shirt that hugged the hard planes of his body, and the lines of his abs through the fabric made you wish you didn't already have a husband. His arms and biceps were decorated with black ink, tattoos all the way down to his neck. Your gazes met and your mouth grew dry at the sight of his piercing green eyes. Like a sharp dagger, it was as if his eyes were cutting you in half to find the source of your inner turmoil. His shoulder-length brown hair framed his angular face, and his thick eyebrows were furrowed.

“I’m so sorry.”

“You know you’re not the only one having a bad day?”

His harsh voice grazed your skin like a knife. There was something condescending and grumpy in it that almost made you feel guilty for disturbing him, but because of the alcohol making you emotional, you were unable to stop crying.

Against all odds, the man dragged the chair to sit across from you. In his hands, he held an open notebook and a pen on which were written texts that distantly resembled song lyrics. A deep crease between his brows, he tried to concentrate, but your occasional whimpers and sniffles made his jaw tense.

“Your boyfriend left you? Do you know the planet is full of men? You’re a gorgeous woman, stop crying over some worthless asshole, it’s pathetic.”

“A gorgeous woman?”

You were sure you looked like a nightmare with your runny mascara and snot, but the stranger seemed sincere, his eyes serious and voice firm.

“I’m married,” you cleared your throat. “And that’s exactly the problem.”

He cocked his head to one side.

“Kill that man if he bothers you.”

You let out an incredulous chuckle at his blunt statement. “I wish I could. But it’s not his fault, it’s mine.”

You glanced at his large, tattooed hands that had rings that were silver as well as his chain around his neck. He drew his full, plump lips into a thin line, his face stern as he stared at his notebook while playing with his pen between his middle and index fingers. After a few seconds of silence, he let out a heavy breath.

“Man, where has my inspiration gone? If this keeps up, I'll never release my album on time.”

“Are you a musician?”

For the first time he'd spoken to you, the corners of his mouth lifted into a smile.

“You don't know me?”

“You seem young, I only listen to gospel, I don't know anything about recent music.”

Surprise flashed across his face. “Only gospel?”

“Yeah?” You tilted your head, not understanding what the problem was.

He shook his head, not believing his ears. “Are you an extreme Christian or something?”

“Christian yes, extreme no. My parents just raised me that way.”

“I'm a rapper. You're the first person I meet who tells me they only listen to gospel. Does that mean you only listen to music about God? Not love music, sad music, or ego-trip music to feel confident?”

“I feel pretty confident with gospel. Especially when it's gospel influenced by soul. But I listen to the music of my culture too, like Kizomba and Cabo Zouk.”

The man narrowed his eyes, doubtful. “So you don't have a sex playlist?”

“A what?!”

His smile widened into a full, playful grin. “A sex playlist, miss prude.”

Because of his nonsense, you had almost forgotten why your eyes were itching and why you were there. You sighed, massaging your temples with your fingers.

“My husband isn't into that.”

“I don’t give a damn about your husband who lets you get drunk at 10 p.m. alone.” His face hardened. “I was talking about you.”

“Sex is kind of boring, music would distract me.”

“Are you asexual?”

“No, it’s just… I don’t know… Long and boring…”

“Ma’am, your man sounds lame as hell.”

“Don’t say that…”

A couple walked past you, their children trotting behind them, and it reminded you of the conversation with your mother. You burst into tears again, and the stranger rolled his eyes.

“There.” He handed you a tissue he had taken out of his pocket.

You blew your nose loudly with it.

“What’s wrong?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because of you fucking crying, I can't concentrate and this is the only kind of bar where I won't be recognized, so we're both stuck.”

“Are you famous?”

“My last album was in the top ten spots on the Billboard charts for 15 consecutive weeks.”

Since your face showed no reaction, he deduced you knew nothing about the Billboard charts.

“Yeah, I’m famous. It’s a pain in the ass.”

“You should be grateful, God bless you with success. Not everyone has this chance.”

He looked displeased, his features sharpening.

“I haven’t worked since I was 14 for my success to be attributed to a bearded man in the sky.”

You frowned. This man didn’t mince his words.

“You’re right. Sorry to force my beliefs on you.”

His expression relaxed. “It’s okay, I don’t mind.”

You stared at your wet handkerchief, feeling the sadness from earlier wash over you like a surging wave drowning you. Unable to survive this deluge alone, you needed to share your pain. Besides, alcohol inhibited you, preventing you from withdrawing into your 'professional mode'.

“If you don't mind, can I talk to you about my life? I don't have any friends.”

“I'm not the most empathetic person in the world. If my friends have problems with their boyfriends, I tell them to beat them.”

You chuckled and sniffled. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“But go ahead, maybe your sob story will give me inspiration for a song.”

You took a deep breath. You didn’t know his name but you were going to tell him your deepest wounds.

“My mom wants me to have kids, but I don't want any.”

“What's the problem? You just don't have to get pregnant.”

You sighed.

“You're used to being able to do what you want, when you want, aren't you?”

“Nah, what makes you say that?” He cocked his head to one side with a smirk.

“You're kinda…”

You weren't sure if it was his neck tattoos, his long dark eyelashes covering his mesmerizing eyes, or his low-octave voice that could send shivers down your spine if he were near your ear, but he exuded an intimidating aura. Something dominant and powerful.

“I'm kinda what?”

“Nevermind.” You looked away, flustered.

“I don't think your husband will appreciate the look on your face, ma'am.”

“I have to have children; no one asks my permission. That's why I'm in this state.”

A shadow passes across the man's face.

“We all have free will. You're a Christian, you're supposed to know that, right?”

“I think God forgot to give me some,” you muttered. “I have no control over anything, I'm so stuck.”

“Okay, stop complaining and tell me the full story.”

“My parents are from Cape Verde, it's an archipelago in West Africa—”

“Ma’am, I didn’t ask for your biography.”

You chuckled, your face lighting up. He was so sassy. “It’s important to my story. Since they’re immigrants, they expect me to have a better life than if they had stayed in Cape Verde. So when I told them I wanted to be a cook, they laughed in my face.”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t pursue your dreams because of your parents?”

You drew your lips into a thin line and he shook his head in disbelief.

“You don’t know what it’s like to live with African parents, do you?” You gave him a small smile.

“One of my best friends, Ony, is also Cape Verdean. But he always followed his dreams and became a beatmaker, even though his mother always told him it wasn't a real job.”

“He's just lucky.”

“Or maybe you lack strength and ambition.”

Your gaze challenged for a moment, but you lost the battle as his green irises shone brightly, burning your retina.

“So I became an attorney for them.”

“What else did you do for them?”

“Marry off the son of one of their friends…”

The man paused, wincing. “Are you serious?”

“It's not a big deal, arranged marriages are still a thing in some cultures,” you cleared your throat, feeling uncomfortable.

“I don't want to judge a culture different from mine, but does that mean your current life, being a attorney and married, isn't even what you want? Don't you think it's crazy to live a life that doesn't reflect your own choices?”

You looked away, your shoulders slumping. His face softened.

“Sorry, you're already in a bad mood, I shouldn't say that.”

“It's just… I don't know… My parents left so much behind so I could have a better life, I feel ungrateful for not making them happy.”

“You're not ungrateful, you have the right to do what you want. You know that all the 'I did this for you' that parents do to us is a type of emotional abuse?”

“I get that, but… My parents really worked hard for me. My mother has infertility issues, and I'm her only daughter; I kind of represent their dreams…”

“It's your life, not theirs.”

“You can't understand.”

His eyebrows knitted.

“Don't ‘white people’ me.”

You leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms over your chest. “But it's true, you can't understand.”

“So… Are you going to live the life you want when your parents die?”

“The day they die, I'll be stuck with kids to raise.”

“You know you're going to traumatize your children? A mother who doesn't want to be a parent can't raise her children well.”

Your gaze saddened. “You're right, but…”

“I'm always right,” he cut in, “you're going to be a horrible mother.”

“Okay…”

“Why are you crying anyway? You wanted to be a doormat and do what your parents wanted, so at least do it with a fake smile. You can't be mad at your parents when you're a grown ass woman who could have said no.”

“Are you victim-blaming me?” You let out a sad giggle.

His lips quirked up. “Be happy to be a pretty victim at least.”

A silence fell between you as the man lowered his head to look at his notebook. After a few seconds, he looked back up at you, a vulnerable glint in them.

“Today is the anniversary of the day my dad abandoned me. I wasn't kidding when I said you weren't the only one having a bad day.”

Your lips parted, empathy filling your heart.

“I'm so sorry.”

“Nah, don't give me that pity shit. You don't know me enough to be really sorry,” he huffed, “I just wanted to make the silence less awkward for you.”

“You're really… a strong person. Doing what you want, calling out people's bullshit, asserting yourself, and you're resilient too.”

His lips curved into a playful grin. “Stop flirting with me, baby.”

You stuttered, flustered. “I didn't want to!”

“Yeah, you're married and loyal, I know. You're really good at playing the good girl, but what's behind all that?” He leaned across the table, also crossing his muscular arms on the table. His gaze pierced you, making you feel small. “You can be real with me. I'm just a stranger, you don't even know my name.”

Your heart raced. “Why do you care?”

“Don't know.” His eyes lingered on your gold cross necklace. “I'm attracted to you.”

You didn't know what to say and lowered your head to stare at his notebook.

“I don't have much to say about myself,” you mumbled, “I'm a bit boring.”

“I noticed.”

His blunt self made you laugh. “Sorry, I'm not a rapper who can travel the world and do whatever he wants.”

“Ouch.” He placed his hand over his heart, a mock pain. “You think my life is all about my rap? I'm also a great big brother.”

“You have a sibling?”

“My little sister, Mikasa. She's my biggest fan.”

“I wish I had siblings; growing up alone was so lonely.”

“I swear you don't want her in your life. She's a pain in the ass.”

“It's good that your father's abandonment didn't separate you and made you closer.”

His face darkened. “I had no choice but to look after her; my mother started doing drugs after my father left.”

A gentle look passed across your face. “That's really sad. I hope you can see a psychologist to talk about it. These kinds of things are mentally heavy to bear.”

He shook his face, his features easing at your cute worry. “Nah, I don't need that. Music is enough for me.”

“Want me to listen to it?”

His cheeks turned pinkish. “It's not gospel, you know that, right?”

“I'm aware, but I don't mind. I'm curious.”

He took his phone out of his pocket with wired earphones. His hands were shaking a little as he scrolled through his folders, glancing at you nervously as he searched for his music. Seeing him anxious for you made you shy too. He passed you an earbud, which you slipped into your ear, and you leaned across the table to look at his phone screen, his warm breath caressing your face.

“My genre is more horrorcore, but I do anything with a dark atmosphere,” he warned you. “A fan sent me an incredible instrumental, and I had to rap over it. Some of my fans are also mad that I don't have a specific genre and that I'm hard to categorize and would like a full album of that style. But honestly, I will still do the shit I want.”

As soon as the video began, the heavy bass of the music sent shivers down your spine. Filmed in the middle of the night, he was in a forest, the hood of his black hoodie pulled over his head. The beat was dark, with an almost solemn atmosphere accompanied by a creepy voice in the background that echoed like in a church. Each of his lyrics ended with a clever rhyme that made you press your earbuds to better hear what he was saying because you didn't want to miss a word of his excellent flow.

“That’s… Kinda sexy.” Your drunk mind was saying nonsense.

“What the hell? I’m rapping on a horrorcore beat.”

“I don’t know if it’s your voice, the confidence in your way of being, the roughness of your lyrics but… It’s sexy.”

His tongue began to rub the inside of his cheek and his eyes narrowed. “You really want me to fuck you tonight?”

Your cheeks burned. “No.”

“Because I can, you know.” He smirked.

“Let’s focus on your music…”

“Talk about your fav singers.”

“I thought I was lame because I didn’t have a sex playlist and listened to gospel?”

A low chuckle escaped his mouth. “Don’t do me like that.”

“I don't really follow artists because I avoid worshipping people who shit like us and reserve that treatment for God, so I just have favorite songs.”

“I actually like your mind.” He nodded. “I feel weird when my listeners see me as their favorite human without knowing me personally, but they pay my bills, so I avoid being ungrateful.” He gestured to his phone. “Show me some songs.”

“That’s not aggressive rap like yours, you know.”

He rolled his eyes. “Please, I’m a musician before I’m a rapper. I know how to appreciate good music even if it’s from a religion that’s not mine.”

You searched YouTube for “You Waited” by Travis Greene, and your heart beat a little faster, watching him watch the music video, a little nervous about whether he’d like it.

Surrounded by people but with the lights pointed at him, the black singer began to sing, guitar in hand. The beginning of the song was soft and slow before the drums joined the music. In the second half of the song, everything accelerated, and the singers in the background joined the lead vocalist in a beautiful accumulation of vocals. The audience, some of them feeling emotional, began to cry and raised their arms to move to the beat.

“That’s really beautiful,” he said at the end of the video. “I love all the instruments used. I still don’t believe Jesus is waiting for me somewhere, but he’s very talented.”

“That’s okay, Jesus loves everyone even though you don’t like him.”

“What a great guy,” he teased.

“You don’t believe me?”

“Nah. I’m more into existentialism.”

“What is that?”

His eyes became serious. “It’s the fact of thinking that life has no meaning, and that it’s up to us to give it one. There’s also the absurdism of Albert Camus, which is to accept the absurdity of life and live it anyway, but his philosophy is quite weak to practice. Existentialism is also not believing in the idea that we have a soul, and that therefore human nature doesn’t exist, and that we all have free will. I never believed in God when I see homeless people dying in the streets of Skid Row, or families broken by drugs. I believe that we just live on a huge ball for no reason and that we have two choices: commit suicide because life is unfair, or make our life the best possible experience with the freedom of choice we have. When I wake up in the morning, discouraged by my album sales, although it rarely happens to me because I’m really the shit in the rap game, I tell myself that it’s up to me to make my life better and I shouldn't complain. So yeah, not a Christian, but free will and freedom are very important to me."

“That's really... Interesting,” you offered an impressed smile. “I've never really thought like that. I just… I think everything happens for a reason. In the Bible, there's this concept of predestination, that Jesus has already saved whoever he wanted to save. In fact, there are two Jesuses that exist, two types of Christians. There's the Jesus who punishes, and the one who loves everyone. You'll see the difference in the way some treat homosexuals, for example. Some Christians will see homosexuality as a test to overcome given by God, like in Islam, or a vice of the devil, while others will accept the person's homosexuality, because if that person is like that, it's because God chose them and they deserve to be loved in the way Jesus created them. I think we're born with a set of predestined tests to make us grow, and sometimes a little temptation from the devil to prevent us from being on the right path, but I don't think we really have to ‘change’ to be loved by God.”

“So you’re the good kind of Christians, not like the MAGA kind?”

Your eyes widened. “Please.”

“Just asking.” He grinned, raising his arms to show his innocence.

“If Jesus came back, he would be against them. Jesus was always there and protected the marginalized.”

“You’re really the first Christian who tells me Jesus would be a trans supporter…”

“I told you, Jesus loves everyone.”

Too immersed in your conversation, you hadn’t approached the bartender who had approached your table.

“Excuse me for disturbing you, but we’re closing.”

You looked at your luxury watch and noticed it was past midnight.

“I’m sorry, we’re going out.”

The man you shared the evening with followed you out of the bar, his eyes roaming over the curves of your ass molded into your denim pencil skirt, a glimmer of appreciation in them. Once outside, he took a cigarette and a lighter from his pocket. He leaned his back against the wall of a building next to the bar, lit his cigarette, and his gaze fell on you, his mouth forming a small 'o' as he blew out the smoke.

“Do you know the song Slow Down by Bobby Valentino?”

“No?” You tilted your head.

“The singer sings about a beautiful girl he saw on Melrose Avenue and really wants to sex up.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. “Um, yeah?”

He raised his free hand to point at the 'Melrose' sign not far from them, then pointed at you.

“You really don’t get it?”

You looked away. “Mhm…”

“I saw you walking down on Melrose, you looked like an angel straight out of Heaven, girl. I was blown away by your sexiness, now all I have to do is catch up to you,” he sang, approaching you.

Your cheeks were so hot you could cook eggs on them. “This is so embarrassing, stop!”

The man just made a sly smile.

“Slow down, I just want to know you…”

You turned around, clutching your shoulder bag, ready to escape this horrible situation, but he grabbed your hand behind you.

“But don’t turn around, ‘cause that pretty round looks good to me.” He twirled his hand above your head, his devious grin meeting your shifty eyes. “Now turn around and bless me with your beauty.”

The world stopped as he lowered his head and captured your lips. You didn’t fight, didn’t scream, didn’t react, didn’t do anything! You stayed frozen, kissing a second man after having known only your husband your whole life. And the worst part of this is that you’re this close to fainting for him. Your heart skipped a beat, and you closed your eyes. He didn’t need to cradle your face; his lips already possessed your entire being. And you did something incomprehensible. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the argument with your mother that made you want to break the rules and stop being a good girl. But you kissed him back, gently pressing your mouth against him.

“The church girl wants my dick?” he whispered against you.

“Please don’t say anything and just kiss me.”

“It reminds me of another song my friend Connie loves. Los Infieles by Aventura. It’s about infidelity. At the beginning of the song, they say they commit a sin and are going to hell. I know the words by heart. His hispanic ass can’t stop listening to bachata every day since we were little.”

“You’re really a music nerd.”

“And you, a very sinful girl. Do you think God would still love you after this?”

He deepened his kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth as you parted your lips.

“In the song, they say ‘how can something so wrong can feel so good,’ don’t you think it applies to us?” He grabbed your throat to press your body against his, his cigarette still lit in his other hand. “You smell so good, what’s your perfume?”

“Her by Burberry,” you breathed. You struggled to think straight every time his tongue flicked against yours, your cunt pulsating, wanting more. “How many girls crying in a bar have you picked up?”

“You’re the first and the prettiest.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t need to.” He nibbled your lower lip. His way of kissing was teasing, playful, sassy, just like him. You placed your hands on his chest, feeling the firm muscles of his chest under your palms. Nothing to do with your older beer-bellied husband.

“I…”

“You look like you’re needing some good dick,” he moved away from you, and his dark gaze with dilated pupils made your body in a liquified mess. You stared at the ground, swallowing hard.

“I don’t want to cheat on my husband but I…” Your voice cracked, tears welled up in your eyes. “I’m just so tired of everything.”

“Where is your husband?”

“In a business trip for a week.”

“Ma’am, I can change your whole view of sex in a week. In just a night, actually.”

“You seem so young, I can’t do that…”

“I’m 24.”

You gulped. “I’m almost 10 years older than you.”

“Sexy.”

You looked up in exasperation. “Please.”

“What? I can’t find you sexy at your age?”

“You need to go home before I make a really big, sinful, and serious mistake.”

“I want you to make that really big, sinful and serious mistake.” He took a drag of his cigarette before exhaling. “Just let me walk you home at least. You’re a lady, I’m not leaving you alone in the street.”

The rest of the walk was silent as you could hear the sound of his exhalations as he smoked. You only spoke to point him in the direction as he walked ahead of you, his hand intertwined in yours. When you reached your apartment, he let out a whistle.

“You live in Pacific Palisades, girl? Am I talking to a simple attorney or Olivia Pope?”

“Why?” You made an awkward expression, taking your keys out of your bag.

“That's like the richest neighborhood in Los Angeles after Bel-Air.”

“You're famous, so you also have money, where do you live?”

“Near Skid Row.”

A deep crease formed between your eyes. Skid Row was known for its serious poverty, with a large community of homeless people living on the streets, accompanied by the overwhelming majority of drug addicts wandering the streets.

“...Why? It's the worst neighborhood in Los Angeles.”

“Your privilege is showing, ma'am.”

“Privilege where? I'm a fucking diaspora kid.”

“Ohhh, the church girl can cuss,” he teased behind you as you entered the building.

In the elevator, he played with the curly locks sticking out of your afro puff.

“You let me in the building, am I to understand that you really want my dick?”

“You still haven't explained to me why you live in the poorest part of town.”

“My mom lives there. I tried to get her into rehab, but she's always trying to kill herself. I finally realized I'd never see my sober mom again, and decided to look out for her when I pass by her street. She's often outside; if you lived there, you'd know her.”

Your features eased. “That's really sad, I don't know what to say.”

“Let's talk about how your professional look like coming straight from a porn video with your curves.”

“Do you watch porn?” You made a disgusted expression.

“Don't need to, if I want to fuck I just need to go to a club. You know that just my name makes panties wet?”

“You really have a filthy mouth.”

“And you want to know what more can this mouth do?” He placed his hands on your ass, gripping the ample flesh. “Does your husband spank you?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Answer it.” He lowered his head to press soft kisses along your neck. “You told me sex was boring with him, I'm trying to figure out how boring.”

“We're never in a position for spanking…” Your body temperature rose at the lips on your throat. You stared at the ceiling and bit your lip, wondering why you liked committing such a serious sin, as if that stranger was the devil in disguise.

“Don't tell me you're only doing missionary. I hope this is a joke.”

“Why would I want my man to hit me? He loves me.”

“Luckily I'm not your man so I can treat you as roughly as I want.” He caught a piece of skin between his teeth and sucked it.

You gently pushed him away to go open the door to your apartment when the elevator stopped. Hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans, he followed you. He was so much taller than you, so when he stood behind you as you opened the door, your palms became sweaty, intimidated.

Your apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows with a perfect view of Los Angeles at night. Skyscrapers, tall buildings, and streetlights illuminated the still-dark rooms of your home. When you turned on the light in the entrance hall, the man admired the minimalist decor, which reflected your wealthy lifestyle. There was nothing personal about it except for the obviously well-tended plants and the many black, white, and wooden objects.

“So…” You scratched the back of your head.

“Just show me your room.”

“You don’t want to eat something?”

“For what?” He raised an eyebrow. “My meal is right in front of me.”

Blood rushed to your cheeks. Your heels tapped against the expensive parquet flooring as you walked toward your bedroom. The man glanced at the living room and the kitchen—still minimalist, clean, and rich as fuck.

“Um, I…” You stared at the floor, fidgeting your hands.

He was pulling off his compression shirt without a care in the world, and your jaw dropped. He was built. Ripped. So muscular, as if he had an OnlyFans account and was flexing his abs for his followers. You bit the inside of your cheek. He was the kind of man you had a crush on as a teenager, but you knew your parents would never accept his tattoos.

“Is that you and your husband?” His deep voice made you look up at his face and stop watering at his V-line. He was looking at your wedding photo on the nightstand.

“Yes.”

“Can I say something disrespectful?”

“As if you didn’t have a foul mouth all night.”

“You could do better than him, he looks like he's 10 years older than you, like why he's balding and you're in your thirties?”

“Men are like that in their forties…”

“I will not be like that when I am 40, trust me. Booking a flight to Turkey as soon as I see a bald spot. Gotta keep looking fine for pretty ladies like you.”

You giggled at that and sat on your bed. You really didn't know how to begin this awful idea. You avoided his gaze as you played with your wedding ring on your ring finger. A sinful gesture.

The devil sat next to you, and took your hand.

“You know how to read hand lines?” He stroked the thin creases in your palms.

“No, what about you?”

“Me neither. Just tryin’ to make things less awkward.”

His sentence caused a small quiet laugh to come out of your mouth.

“I really like your laugh, it’s sexy,” he stared at you, his eyes serious.

He made your insides bubble up. “Thank you. I like your voice too.”

“Yeah?” He lowered his head to kiss the back of your hand. “What else do you like about me?”

“Um, you really have pretty eyes.”

His mouth pressed against your wrist in a soft gesture, his hydrated lips smooth against your skin. You struggled to focus because of his gentle way of treating you.

“And I really like your tattoos. You look more intimidating and confident, it’s attractive.”

He smiled against your forearms, and looked up to stare in yours as he caught a piece of flesh between his teeth, sucking. Your eyes wide, you shivered.

“What are you doing?”

“I said you were my meal.” He let his tongue run over your flesh before peppers kisses on your arm and moves up to your shoulder, leaving a wet trail behind him. “You seem to really like me. You would really like a thing between my legs in a few minutes.”

“You're always talking about your penis…”

“That's the best thing about me, ma'am.”

“Actually, I don't think I really like sex, so…”

“I don't know if you're just asexual or if your husband is the shittiest man out here,” he sighed. He placed his hand on your thick thigh, and placed a few kisses along your throat making you erupt goosepumps on your skin. “There are many things you can like during sex.”

“I like it when it’s quick like that, it ends quickly.”

He drew his lips into a thin line. “Yeah, no. That won’t do.”

He undid a few buttons of your shirt, revealing your lacy red set underneath.

“Not very church girl of, huh?”

“My husband offered me this.”

“That bastard has good taste. Too bad I'm the one enjoying it right now.”

He lowered the cup of your arm, and pinched and rolled your brown nipple between his fingers. You bit your lower lip, getting hot.

“I had sex with an autistic woman one day,” he kissed your jaw while toying with your nipple. “She had trouble voicing her needs and desires so we used a color system. Red for stop, orange for slow down, yellow for continue doing it and green for harder, faster or more of it. We can do that for you. I don't mind if you realize mid-sex you're not really enjoying it. I had a good night with you, it was fun.”

Your heart swelled at his caring attention. “So you’re actually a respectful guy?”

“Not you admitting you're seeing me as an asshole-”

“Green,” you cut in.

His lips curved into a grin and he captured your lips for a kiss again as his whole hand fitted your big breast which he squeezed. You didn't get the self-conscious thought about the sagginess of your chest that you had when your husband touched you because that man treated you as if you were the most beautiful woman he had seen in his entire life.

His tongue toyed with yours, sliding against it, and it was the first time a kiss made your cunt throb because your husband didn't do it with real passion. Nah, the man in front of you kissed you with languor, a nasty craving to suck on your tongue while he kneaded your tits.

“Strip,” he commanded against your mouth.

With trembling hands, you undid the belt of your skirt and lifted your ass off the bed, sliding it down your legs until it fell to the floor. Completely in your underwear in front of a stranger whose name you didn't even know, a flustered embarrassment washed over you, and you lowered your head, your thighs tightly closed.

“Don't get shy on me now,” he muttered, his voice dominant and harsh, making you shiver again. “I know you're a freaky-ass person. You like to keep things on the low, right? That's why you invited me over without your husband knowing, and let me flirt with you all night. You're an evil woman.”

Your cheeks heated up, still your head down. He wasn't wrong.

“You know the rapper BeatKing?”

“No?”

“In his song “Smile”, he starts his song directly by saying “let me see that pussy”. Do you really want me to get real corny and rap his verse?”

“N-No!”

“So open these fucking legs.”

He stood up to kneel in front of you. He gripped your knees and forced them apart, accessing your already drenched heat between your legs.

“I hope your lame ass husband eats your pussy at least.”

“He does but I don’t find it very pleasurable so we skip it.”

He let out a sigh. “What good has your husband done in his life?”

“A lot of things, he's a businessman and-”

He tossed your thong to the side, parted your lips and plunged his lower face deep into wet folds. The feeling of his warm mouth on your tight heat made your heart miss a beat, a wave of pleasure taking over you. Usually, your husband did unnecessary foreplay where he spent long minutes kissing your inner thighs, focusing more on the outside of your pussy than the inside, making you bored. So having a man who was going straight to the pussy was a change.

And he wasn't shy at all. Like a real munch, when your taste met his tongue, he hummed against you, the vibrations of his voice making you weak in the knees. His tongue wiggled through the folds, working its way up and up to your clit, so that he can wrap his lips around it and suck it with greed. You clenched your thighs around his head at the sensation, pants coming from your mouth and he wrapped your legs around him, putting them on his shoulders.

He removed his silver rings and shoved two fingers up to your cunt but you tensed.

“I don’t like fingering.”

He paused. “Girl, what do you like about sex?”

“When he does it it’s-”

He rolled his eyes in exasperation, and made a back and forth movement with his digits, dragging them out and in of you. Slicking them with your juices, the motion made a wet noise that made your cheeks burn. When he bottomed out, he curled them to hit that spongey spot in you that you didn't know you had and made your legs shaking.

In an unconscious gesture, you ground your hips around his face. He gripped your love handles to bring you closer to him and help you rock your lower body better. He alternated between eating you out and fingering you, sometimes removing his fingers just to lapping between folds, the dance of his tongue on you exquisite, plunging them back into you, the thrusts of his digits so pleasurable and good. It had nothing to do with your husband.

Brain so fucked out, you chased your high while bucking your hips, not familiar with the coil in your lower belly winding tighter and tighter.

“Is that…”

“Is that what?” He moved away from your clit, his lips glistening with your arousal.

“I never came with him.”

“You married him for your parents, of course you're not attracted to him. But that doesn't apply to me, does it?”

He placed kisses in the crease of your thighs and sucked the skin while the languid pace of fingers gliding against your velvet walls made soft moan coming out of your mouth. He did everything in reverse: coming straight to the pussy, riling you up quickly and while you were just waiting to cum on his face, he teased you, doing foreplay before the big orgasm.

As he kissed you, he came back from time to time near your clit, spreading the lips that hid your sweet spot to blow a soft breath on your throbbing bud. Your head buzzed with arousal as you arched your back, biting your lips at his playful way of pleasing you.

“Green, suck on it, please,” you asked, your voice desperate, hips canting up.

“Your orders are absolute.”

His lips wrapped again around your clit, sucking it with craving, a jolt of pleasure setting you ablaze. The tremor building in your core intensified to the max, your eyes rolling back in pure bliss as your toes curled. As your orgasm rippled through you, the man between your thighs fixed his gaze on the sight of you unraveling.

“Get on all fours.”

You hadn’t even had time to digest the fabulous high you had just experienced with him, the first time you came with a man, before he was already using an almost threatening voice.

“I never did that position…”

“I know that, Miss Church Girl. Now, on all fours.”

You got into position just as he asked, your body tensing as you heard the sound of his jeans falling to the floor behind you. You were scared because he didn’t seem gentle at all, nothing like the loving sex you were used to with your husband. You knew he was going to beat your shit with a straight face, like he's used to doing with other women.

Kneeling on the bed, his tattooed hand ran over the skin of your back, pressing down to make you arch, your face pressed against the sheets as your ass was high up in the air. Your heart pounded in your ribcage as you felt the long drag of his dick sank in your tight heat, his girthy inches disappearing inside you.

“So tight,” he hissed, his cock throbbing, “gonna ruin you.”

It sounded terrifying, but your pussy clenched around him, turned on. He gripped your wide, thick hips, pressing your ass against his pelvic bone, as he drove his dick deeper. Your breath caught when he bottomed out, never having been so full in your life.

“W-Wait,” you panicked, needing time to adjust to his size.

“Baby, I’m an asshole, I won’t wait for shit,” he let out a wicked laugh, making you shudder, realizing you were stuck with a psychopath.

“No, wait, I-”

“We have a color system, ma’am. You can say ‘no’ as much as you want, I won’t stop.”

Not really wanting to stop, you were just scared, you kept your lips close.

“That’s what I thought,” he moved his pelvic floor backward, a little relief washing over you as he was no longer deep inside you, but he slammed his hips back against your ass instantly, delivering a particularly harsh thrust.

Your hands clenched into fists as you panted against your pillow, tears already welling up in your eyes at the brutality of his movements. This wasn’t what you were used to, not at all. Your husband treated you like you were a fragile thing, a victim of a Madonna-Whore complex where he was unable to see his wife in a sexy way, because he categorized women into two categories: sensual women among whores and marriageable girls that he could not sexualize. While this man behind you saw you as you really were, a girl who had sexual needs.

You arched better your spine off the bed, wanting to please him and show off your curves, ignoring the voice in your brain that reminded you that you were committing a sin. He smirked seeing how you positioned your back, making your fat ass more round for him. With his head lowered, he had an erotic view of his tattoos on his defined abdomen and the curvature of your ass against him, with the white lines of your stretch marks making you ever more beautiful to him. He raised his hand in the air and delivered a hard spank on one of your asscheeks, making you flinch. He groaned seeing them bounce, the ample flesh moving like water.

“You know, you have the best body I’ve ever seen in my life,” he rasped, rocking his hips with force and aggression, making you cry against your pillow. You couldn't even be flustered by his compliment, your gut twisting in arousal at each of his strokes. His hard length slid easily inside you; you were so wet, your dripping cunt swallowing him with greed. “But I also wonder who you are inside.”

He grabbed your hair, removing the shoe lace that formed your afro puff, freeing it, and grabbed a handful to lift your head from the bed. One hand on the bed, he bent over a little, his rapsy voice close to your ear.

“You see that photo?” He directed your head towards your wedding photo on the bedside table. Your lips parted, trembling. “You’re a cheating whore. You do everything to show everyone that you’re a good girl, but I see through you.” Your pussy pulsed around his cock as he pounded into you, your mouth open as you moaned, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. “Focus. Look at your husband when I’m fucking you.”

Your vision blurred by tears, you could see the chubby face of your loving husband beaming with happiness while his arms were wrapped around you in your wedding dress. “I’m so sorry,” you sobbed.

“Nah, you’re not,” he chuckled darkly. “You love this dick. See how your pussy is squeezin’ me?”

He let go of your hair to grab your wrists and place them behind your back. The noises coming out of your mouth were almost pornographic with how loud you were. This is what heaven felt like for you. You started babbling nonsense in Kriolu, your native language, your breathing ragged as each brutal thrust made you see stars.

“Verdu,” you whimpered. Green.

“Don’t understand what you’re saying, baby. You want more?”

He picked up the pace, always having more to give you, his stamina frightening. Each roll of his hips fed into you became more aggressive, fucking you as if he hated your gut.

“Oh my god!” you shouted, feeling so much pleasure that the sensation of having to pee made you panic, and forgetting your own faith.

“Not God, just Eren Yeager, baby,” he kept a grip on your wrists with one hand and used his other to stimulate your clit.

“Eren?”

His dick twitched inside you at the sound of you pronouncing his name in your Cape Verdean accent.

“Yeah, it's me, keep saying my name.”

You did what he wanted, moaning his name as he drilled into your shit, your walls fluttering around his girth. His fingers continued to trace circles on your sweet spot. Eren's body was glistening with sweat from the effort and intensity of his movements. He loved seeing your ass bouncing on his dick, but he wanted to be facing you when he came. Your face was too beautiful to just be fucked in doggy-style.

He released your wrists and turned you onto your back, smirking at your dizzy expression. He brought your knees onto his shoulders and pushed his hips back into you, the angle deeper, still at the deadly pace he had when you were on all fours. In a moaning mess, you continued to mumble Kriolu nonsense, and Eren tried to understand what you were saying.

“Your language is pretty, just like you.” He leaned over to kiss you, the wet obscene sounds of your union filling the room.

Your kisses were sloppy and messy, sucking his tongue and letting out soft pants. Your nails dug into his back as you scratched him a little harder when his cock hit that spongey spot inside you.

“Más forti, pur favor.” You held him tightly against you, and he understood what you wanted without speaking your language. Harder, please (literally stronger, but said in a “more intense” way).

One hand on the bedframe, rising a little higher, he dragged his dick deeper, harder, pumping you full as the wet slap of your skin hitting his flesh was so loud.

“Who is fucking you?” he asked, his voice husky.

“Eren,” you breathed, your legs trembling harder.

“I said, who is fucking you?” His voice was threatening and harsh, as he pushed in and out in a frantic pace.

“Eren!”

Fucking you into oblivion, your release was closer and closer but you did everything to prevent it.

“I-It’s weird…”

“What is it, baby?”

“It's like I'm going to pee.”

A low chuckle escaped his mouth. “You husband never brought you to this state? That's a shame. It's okay, you can cum for me.”

"Mhm…"

“Open your mouth.”

You frowned but did what he asked. He spat between your lips, the trickle of saliva sweet in your mouth. Surprise flashed across your face but you swallowed and looked away, flustered.

“Now, cum,” he commanded.

You closed your eyes, focusing on the sensations of your bodies moving together. His cock deeply buried in you, your juices milking him, his warm breath caressing your face… Tremors seized your limbs as you let go, your body racked with spasms of pleasure as you cried out his name, your nails racking his skin.

“Shiiit,” he hissed, his eyes glazed over with lust as your cunt pulsated around him. He joined you in your orgasm as he pulled out of you to cum on your belly.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke as you realized you'd made a puddle on the bed, his sticky warmth snaking over your skin, his rapid breathing above you. Then, you broke down. Tears streamed even more heavily down your cheeks as you sobbed, the infidelity you'd just committed mortifying you. He took a tissue from the bedside table to wipe the liquid from your flesh.

“It's a little late to cry, ma'am.”

“I've always done things right, so… Why do I have to ruin all my efforts now?” you sniffled.

“Maybe you're tired of being a good girl, you want your freedom.”

He threw the tissue in the trash can next to your bed.

“I had a bad day too,” he began, sitting down next to you. He didn't know how to console crying girls, so he wanted to share a little vulnerability with you so you wouldn't feel alone. “My sister always gets depressed when we're in the period after our father abandoned us. I spent all morning cleaning her apartment because she couldn't do it.”

“You take good care of her. She can count on you; it must be reassuring for her.”

“I try to.” He gave an awkward smile. “I don't think you're wrong for cheating on your husband,” he changed the subject, ultimately not liking to talk about his sister; it made him too vulnerable, and he didn't know you well enough. “He's lame. He doesn't even see that his wife is unhappy. He deserves what you just did.”

“Don't say that, he's a good guy…”

“A good guy?” His eyebrows knitted. “Because not being attentive to his wife, and not knowing that she's unhappy, is being a good guy?”

“He was never abusive, I was lucky.”

“That's like… The bar minimum?”

You shook your head. “I'm still grateful to have a good husband in a loveless marriage.”

He tsked. “Yeah, ‘a good husband,’ I have my own opinion on that…”

A not-so-uncomfortable silence fell between you. You looked down at your thighs twitching from your overwhelming orgasm, something you'd never felt before.

“How come you're younger than me and able to do this?” you murmured, still at a loss for words.

“Experience, baby. Experience.” His lips curled into a sly grin. “Not something your lame ass husband can have.”

“So you admit you’re kind of a whore?”

“Ohhh, so you really can cuss?” His eyes lit up with amusement. “What can I say? I’m hot and famous. I’m just doing what’s expected of me.”

You got out of bed, and Eren’s eyes roamed over your figure, lingering on your heavy breasts, and he regretted being too focused on fucking you than looking at all those curves.

“You can go take a shower, if you want,” you offered, pulling back the sheets from the bed to change them because of your squirting.

“I’m not going to use the clothes of the asshole who’s your husband,” he huffed.

“I have some of my dad’s clothes somewhere, don’t worry.”

You pulled a pair of sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt out of your closet and handed them to Eren. He eyed them suspiciously before taking them.

“Down the hall on the left.”

He nodded, leaving the bedroom, and your eyes lingered on his round ass, his muscular back covered in tattoos. It was the first time that just looking at a man made your pussy hot. You continued changing the sheets on your bed and put on a nightie. The sound of the water running in the shower filled the apartment as you went to your kitchen to heat up some food for him.

There was still food in your fridge. You poured two plates and heated them in the microwave. A few minutes later, while you were filling a bowl of rice with water to remove the dust, Eren came back into the kitchen, shirtless and his sweatpants hanging low on his hips.

“I don't know what the fabric of the thing in your shower is, but my skin is so soft,” he said, coming up next to you.

You turned your head over your shoulder, offering him a soft smile. “It’s an African net washcloth; it exfoliates the skin and removes dead skin. It’s called sapo.”

“That’s why your skin is so glowing. You have to give me one.” He hugged you from behind, pressing his warm body against yours. “You should stop crying and smile more like that.” He kissed your cheek.

The scene was oddly domestic and intimate, even though you’d only known that man for a few hours.

“It smells good, what is it?” He glanced at the plates on the counter.

“Feijoada. It’s a stew of beans, beef, and pork. It’s a recipe known to Brazilians, but all Portuguese-speaking African countries eat it, including Cape Verde.”

He hummed. “I like beans.” He pressed soft kisses on your neck. “It reminds me of a dish from my childhood, kuru fasulye.”

“What country is it from?” You finished washing the rice and placed the pan on the stovetop.

“It’s Turkish. My mom is Turkish.”

“And your dad?”

“Fuck his German ass.”

You giggled. “Sorry.”

You continued talking as the rice cooked, Eren taking his time peppering your neck with kisses. Even though he was basically a stranger, you felt like he was a friend you’d known for years. You felt safe with him. You enjoyed cooking for him; cooking for people was your love language; it was why you wanted to be a cook when you were little. Secretly, you wished you were his little wife. Things would have been so different.

Finally, sitting around the table—on Eren's lap, because he refused to let you leave—you ate in silence.

“It's really good,” he complimented you after a while.

“Thank you, if you come see me often, I can make you taste all the dishes of my culture.”

His arm tightened around you. “Do you really want to have a long-term affair with me?”

“Why not?”

“I feel like there's been a lot of character development since the bar, Miss Church Girl,” he teased.

“It's just…”

You didn't know how to describe what you felt. You felt guilty about cheating on your husband, but on the other hand, having sex with Eren had made you feel alive for the first time in your life. Now you were addicted to the feeling of freedom he gave you. Eren was the Devil, you were sure of it.

“I feel like I need to pray to gather my thoughts.”

A deep chuckle rumbled in his throat. “Yeah, let’s pray while another man’s cum touched the womb that will welcome your husband’s children.”

“Eren…”

“You religious people are truly the most hypocritical people I know,” he sighed. “But it’s okay, in my family there are Muslims who are more concerned about not eating pork while committing plenty of other sins. I guess, these are the ‘trials’ or ‘tests’ of God you often talk about.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in God.”

“I come from a Turkish Muslim family, ma’am. Just because I don’t believe in it doesn’t mean I don’t know anything about it.” He finished his plate of feijoada and buried his head in your neck. “A lot of people in my family don't like me because I do music, and it's forbidden in their religion. Many judge my mother because she does drugs. They are very judgmental of us, even though at the end of our lives, according to their beliefs, it's God who will judge us, not them.”

“I feel like you're really mature.”

“Mhm, someone wants to be fucked again…”

He tickled you as he kissed your flesh, making you giggle. You didn't have that closeness with your husband. He was loving, gentle, but that was it. There wasn't the passion and tension that existed between Eren and you. You looked at the clock, dreading the moment he was going to leave and you would be alone.

“Don't you want to sleep here? It's late.”

“Are you already in love with me?”

“Don’t say that… I just… I don’t know…” You lowered your head. “I don’t want to be alone…”

“It’s okay, I’m your man tonight, don’t worry. You can use me.” He kissed your cheek again.

That night, Eren and you slept in the same bed. Cuddled in his arms, you cried a little while he was already well asleep. You didn’t know if it was joy or sadness, happy to have found a safe place in your daily life where you always had to pretend to be okay, or sad because you had committed a serious sin. All you knew was that no matter what kind of cliff you fell from, you closed your eyes and let the wind carry you away, not thinking about the violent landing.

────────

𝐀 𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐊 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑

“Ren, you’re not focused, you’re pissing me off,” Ony huffed, adjusting his loosely tied navy durag on his head, contrasting with his deep brown skin.

“I’m talking to the baddest girl ever,” Eren said, his eyes glued to his phone. They were alone in the music studio, Armin left to buy food for everyone, and Connie was late, like always.

“I worked my ass off yesterday to finish the beats on time, so you better focus on me, asshole.”

Eren rolled his eyes.

'You're distracting me,' he sent to you. You replied instantly.

'You too. You're lucky I don't have many clients today; I'm mostly doing administrative work.'

'Are you a attorney or a secretary?'

'Do you think client files magically prepare themselves?'

'Sorry, ma'am, I don't know anything about your job. But I wish I were a criminal so you could defend me.'

Ony grabbed the phone from Eren's hands.

'Focus, dummy.'

“Give me back my fucking phone, I'm not playing with you.” Eren tried to get his phone back, but Ony put it back in his pocket. “I'm talking to a girl you only see in your dreams.”

“Your album is due out in a few months, and you still need to record five songs. You're not focused.”

“Five songs for a few months, it's easy, Ony.”

“Yeah, it would be easy if you weren't a little perfectionist shit who was always changing your mind. Recording a single song takes us weeks because of your moody ass. Aren't you tired of the majority of your fans listening to your unreleased tracks?”

“Playboi Carti is the same, and his album sales are still good.” Eren leaned back on the chair where he was sitting, next to Ony, who was working on the computer, using Reaper software. Everyone else was using FL Studio, but Ony had started beatmaking on a budget, and Reaper was an honest company that offered its lifetime services for $60.

All of Eren's fans were shocked at the types of beats Ony was capable of making on software that was less popular than the big names we knew in the music industry. Ony was one of Eren's best friends, but also a musical genius; it was a blessing to be able to work with him.

“Playboi Carti is a lame rapper. Without his beatmakers, he's nothing. You have me, but you're talented without beats. Your freestyles always go viral, don't compare yourself to him. He beat Iggy when she was pregnant.”

“Yeah, I know. I hope he dies.”

Eren and Ony talked for a long time, suggesting artists the young rapper could work with for his soon-to-be-released album. Eren was a very successful rapper who had never been involved in any beef with another artist, so he could feature whomever he wanted; the response would always be positive.

Connie walked into the studio humming along to the music he was listening to in his headphones, his gray beanie on his head, contrasting with his tanned, tattooed skin. Everyone had tattoos, except Armin, who was more reserved. They even shared a tattoo they'd gotten in Atlanta after a show, a testament to their deep connection.

“Man, we need you here at 2 p.m., not 4 p.m. You have no respect,” Ony reprimanded him.

“I was with Sasha,” Connie said, his voice nonchalant.

Eren quirked an eyebrow. “Sasha? The one who cheated on you with Niccolo?”

“Yeah, that one. What about it? I do what I want with my dick. Eren is fucking a married woman!”

“She's a victim,” Eren corrected. “It's a loveless marriage.”

“Right, right, everything is okay as long as you're the one doing it,” Connie grumbled and slumped into one of the chairs. “You constantly criticize me. I find it kind of racist.”

“Man, the fuck are you talking about?” Ony shook his head, focusing on the large computer.

A hard beat filled the room. Connie bobbed his head to the music with an appreciative expression.

“That's really good.”

“Nah,” Eren frowned. “I don't like the hook, changing the gain, or improving the build-up.”

“Always somethin’ to complain, I swear to God.” Ony tensed but made the changes his friend requested.

Eren's phone vibrated in the pocket of Ony's baggy jeans. His friend looked at the notification.

“Your girl is saying she's done today and you can come fuck her early.”

“She'd never say that, you idiot,” he took his phone from Ony and read your message. He wrote a quick reply.

‘Come to the studio.’

‘Isn't that a little risky?’

‘Your husband is at work right now. Come home at the same time as if you'd finished your day as usual.’

‘Okay. Is my work outfit okay?’

‘This is a music studio, not a gangster hangout, baby.’

He sent you the address of the studio, which was near the Top Dawg Entertainment building, Eren's independent label.

'I'll be there in 30 minutes, Carson's not far from L.A.,' you replied.

'No problems, baby.'

“No problems, baby,” Connie repeated in a honeyed voice, his head over Eren's shoulder to check what he was texting. Eren tsked and nudged him.

Armin came back with a plastic bag in each hand, adjusting his glasses as he closed the door.

“I hope you didn't make a mistake and get tostones instead of empanadas like last time. I'll kick your ass,” Connie rubbed his hands together.

“You look like Sasha.” Armin smiled. “Nope, I got the empanadas you wanted.” He gave Ony and Eren a handshake before sitting down and taking the contents out of the bags onto the desk.

“Karibbean Cuisine is the only Dominican food truck in Los Angeles. I'm so mad they're all in New York.”

“There are less Carribean Latinx on the West Coast, that's why,” Ony dropped the computer mouse and began to eat.

“I exist, so everyone should open restaurants for me.”

“Go to New York if you feel too lonely here,” Eren mumbled, his mouth full of food.

“Ew,” Armin winced.

Eren gave him the finger.

They ate while bickering, laughing most of the time. Armin was Eren's manager and Connie was one of his sound engineers, but mostly they were Eren's best friends. His second family.

After a while, there was a soft knock on the door, making everyone freeze. Connie smiled and licked his lips, excited to see Eren's girl, while the rapper gave him a mock-punch, getting up to open the door.

Outside, dressed in your leather trench coat that hid your professional dress, with high heels, your short curly wig that you only reserved for work because Eren messed up your afro yesterday and you couldn't be bothered to redo a neat afro puff, you held your designer bag against you. Nervous, your jaw tensed as you stared at Eren, who was standing in front of you.

With a blue and white NFL jersey, black baggy jeans, and his sneakers the same color, his silver chain glowed in the sun that lit up Carson today. His brown hair was messy, as he often ran his hand through it when he focused on Ony's beats. His emerald eyes lingered on the belt of your trench coat, which created an hourglass illusion on your voluptuous body.

“Yo,” he greeted you, his voice low. “You look good.”

He had spent the entire week your husband was on his business trip fucking you; he still had flashbacks from yesterday, and seeing you still had the same effect on him. He wanted to ravish you.

“You too.”

He took your hand and led you into the studio. The lighting was dim, and the walls were completely black. There was a hallway and two large rooms. One for mixing, and one for recording the rap verses. Eren led you into the mixing room, where all his friends were curious to see that it was the new girl he was obsessed with.

You gave them an awkward smile and took off your trench coat to place it on the back of one of the chairs. Connie's eyes roamed your body and glanced at Eren, giving him a discreet thumbs-up. Eren gestured with his hand in front of his throat that said, "I'm gonna kill you." Ony and Armin were more respectful and avoided staring too much at your ample curves, impossible not to notice in your dress.

“The man in front of the computer is my beatmaker, Ony. He's the Cape Verdean I told you about who isn't a victim to his family compared to you,” Eren smirked, amused by the way your lips drew in a thin line at his mean remark.

“Which island in the archipelago are you from?” you asked softly at Ony.

“Sal. You have the accent of the people from Saõ Vicente.”

Your eyes lit up, happy that he recognized where you were from just by your accent. “Yeah, I get that a lot. I'm from Mindelo. I've never visited Sal.”

Ony offered a polite smile. “The island gets a little annoying with all the tourists, but you're safe once you get away from Santa Maria. I always loved the beaches and—”

“Turkey is cool too,” Eren cut in, jealous that Ony was taking up all your attention.

“I didn't say otherwise,” Ony chuckled.

“You've never been to Turkey, you're American,” Connie teased.

“Do you know what 'diaspora' means, dickhead?” Eren bickered with Connie, their laughter filling the studio.

You sat on one of the chairs and watched the guys work. Ony had two ways of doing things: either he presented beats to Eren, and the rapper chose which of his lyrics best suited the production, or Eren presented his verses to Ony and asked him to create a beat based on the rapper's requests.

Eren was skilled in horrorcore, cloud rap and trap, so Ony had to be versatile in his productions to suit his tastes. The rapper wanted to make aggressive rap for his album, so Ony focused on heavy bass beats.

Having spent every night together last week, you and Eren were closer; he already knew your body by heart, but now, with his friends and in the studio, you saw a more comfortable, natural, and playful Eren. You sometimes exchanged glances, but his eyes quickly darkened, moving down to the neckline of your dress.

“Have you prepared any music videos?”

Eren turned to you, pleased that you were interested in his career. He tapped his lap, and understanding his gesture, you came to sit on him, and he moved closer to the desk.

“Yeah, we have 5 of the 15 tracks on the album.”

“Can I see?”

Eren basically pushed Ony out of the office area. He laughed and moved away so the rapper could show you his MP4 files.

“How long are your songs?” You leaned your back against his firm chest.

“Minimum 3 minutes, but I don't like long songs over 5 minutes.” Eren clicked on the “documents” folder and searched for where the clip shots for his videos were stored on Ony's hard drive.

An MP4 file appeared, showing Eren sitting on a couch surrounded by partying people while he rapped, ignoring the commotion around him. The camera followed him as he walked through the house filled with humans, but still nonchalantly. The lyrics spoke of the dangers of the music industry, like drugs, the industry metaphorically representing the party while Eren, the artist, navigated this world avoiding its vices.

“That's very clever,” you complimented him.

“Mhm, nah. It's kind of corny.”

“You're being hard on yourself. I like the metaphor.”

“You just want my dick like everyone else.”

You tensed. “Don't say things like that, there are your friends here,” you murmured.

He moved his head next to your ear, his voice husky. “Why? You're flustered when we're not alone?”

“It's just not polite.”

“Always so proper as if you weren't crying over my dick, yestereday, telling me to go harder in Creole—”

You pressed his foot with yours and he smiled.

“My bad. I have a foul mouth.” He turned toward his friends. “Can you go smoke outside? I want to be alone with her.”

“It's a studio, not a love hotel,” Ony warned Eren.

Eren's smile expanded. “I will be the first to transform it like that then.”

Ony looked up in exasperation and grabbed Connie's shoulder, who protested but let himself be dragged towards the exit with Armin. Once alone, Eren pressed out kisses on your neck, tightening his arms around you. Your heart racing at the thought of doing anything sexual here, you changed the subject.

“Why are there never women in your music videos?”

“What do you mean?” A deep crease formed between his eyes. “I have plenty of feats with women, I don't discriminate.”

“No, I mean like… A lot of rappers have naked girls in their music videos…”

“Ah.” He buried his head on your neck, nuzzling it. “That's just not my style. I find it cringe.”

“You never rap about women?”

“Of course I do.” His breath caressed your skin. “But I'm just talking about sex. I've never been in a relationship.”

Your eyes widened. “Never? But…”

“But what?”

“I mean, you're obviously a very attractive guy…”

“Yeah, I know.” He nibbled at your flesh. “Handsome, yeah, but pretty fucked up in the head.”

“What do you mean?”

“You think it's easy to trust someone after being abandoned by the one who was supposed to love you forever?”

“Oh.” Your voice softened with empathy. “I didn't think of that, sorry. You seem so confident.”

“Stop that, you're talking as if I said some emo bullshit. I'm just being honest.”

You closed your lips, unsure how to handle such a vulnerable conversation. Eren sensed your conflict and caressed your thighs over your dress to soothe your worry.

“I saw a psychologist a few months ago.”

It was something he'd only told his best friends. You made him feel safe. It was a gift, a gift of himself that he gave you.

“And what did you tell him? Were you able to talk to him about your trust issues?”

“I ghosted him.”

“Eren…”

His tongue ran back and forth across your neck. “What?”

“You're sabotaging yourself.”

“I'm a grown-ass man, I don't have the BPD he wanted to diagnose me with. He should have never said that to me.”

“He was just doing his job.”

“Is this really the woman who's a pathological people pleaser talking to me?”

“I'm not a people pleaser.”

“Right,” he laughed quietly, “and I'm not a traumatized kid. We are just a duo of hot humans, right?”

He sucked on a sensitive spot, making you shiver.

“Is your husband back from his trip?”

“Yes, and I'm a little scared about tonight.”

“Scared of what?”

“I don't want to sleep with him. After what we did… I don't know… I feel weird in my body.”

“Ahhh, you're finally feeling the effect of having good dick? You don't want to touch an inexperienced man after this, do you?” He slid his hands under your dress to reach up to your panties, and rubbed his fingers on your clothed cunt.

“Not here, Rennie.”

The nickname escaped you before you could stop it, and you flinched, waiting for his reaction, but Eren's lips quirked up against your skin, and he continued fake-fingering you through your panties, causing a wet zone to form. His fingers slipped under the fabric to stroke your wet folds.

“Are you going to think of me when your husband fucks you?”

“Don't say things like that…”

“But it's true, am I right? No one knows how to take care of you better than me,” his fingers traced circles on your clit. “Does he make you cry and say ‘o nha mae’ all night like me?” Oh my gosh (literally “oh my mom” but it’s cape verdean slang).

You squirmed on his lap, soft pants escaping your lips. “Rennie, stop, your friends…”

“They know perfectly well what's going on, baby.”

“Even though, I feel uncomfortable.”

“I forgot you were a princess. You have to do it right in a clean bed.” His hand left your warmth and slipped into your mouth as your tongue swirled around his knuckles, tasting yourself. “I will not call you a good girl, you're a cheating whore.”

“I don't want to be your good girl.”

“Ah, it's only for your husband, I know that,” he huffed.

“That's not what I meant—”

His friends came back into the studio, the sound of the door opening making you fix your dress.

“I hope you're not naked!” Connie approached with his hands over his eyes.

“Idiot,” Eren muttered.

You looked at your watch, biting your lower lip because you wanted to stay with Eren, but you had to go home.

“I need to—”

“I know,” Eren kissed your temple. “Have a good evening and think about me a lot.”

You got up from him and leaned down to give him a big hug. You'd only known each other for a week, and you felt like you were already so attached to him. You already missed him when you left the studio to go home.

────────

Eren was a blunt, determined, and confident man, while your confidence was only displayed in the professional sphere. In everyday life, you were a shy, reserved woman who let people walk all over her and was afraid to say 'no'. Your parents had always taught you to obey, to be submissive, and polite.

The difference between you two was obvious when you texted each other. Eren used slang and abbreviations, while you were polite and sophisticated in your replies. You only had a small Facebook account, but Eren had encouraged you to create an Instagram account to follow his stories and posts.

On Twitter, some fans had noticed your mysterious account in his followings, and many simply assumed it was his spam account, without suspecting that it was a woman behind it.

Several weeks had passed since your husband's business trip. The sex between you and Eren was always passionate, aggressive, and oddly vulnerable. There was something intimate about being able to be yourself in front of someone, to drop the social mask, and let yourself be free. With Eren, you discovered sides of yourself you didn't even know existed.

“You like that?” your husband whispered as he thrust into you, your legs around his waist, his beer belly rubbing against your pudgy belly. It was nothing like the feeling of Eren's strong arms encircling you, his defined abs, a hard plane against your softness. You weren't fatphobic, you were plus-size yourself, but Eren was painfully your type as a man, compared to your husband, who was older than you and was losing his attractiveness as the years receded his hairline.

“Mhm,” you struggled to really get in the mood, the friction of his cock inside you too different from Eren's hard pounding, or his hands gently touching your breasts, too soft compared to Eren's hands wrapping around your throat while he was grunting, asking you 'who is fucking you?'.

You weren't very wet, so the action hurt a little, so you stared at the ceiling, waiting for it to end quickly. When your husband was finally asleep, you texted Eren.

'I hate sex.'

'Nah, you hate him. You love sex with me.'

'I feel like something is wrong with me. He's very gentle and loving, but it's not enough.'

'Gentle sex only works when you're in love, not in an arranged marriage.'

'Do you think if you were gentle it would work?'

'Of course, I do.'

'I'm not in love with you.'

'For now. It's only a matter of time before I break up your little union.'

'You're very arrogant.'

'I have to be to get where I am in the music industry.'

'I have something to ask you, but I'm afraid you'll say no.'

'Tell me, ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚.'

'I sing in a gospel choir, and we're performing at a church next week. I know you don't believe in God, and I know you don't want to get too close to me, but I'd like you to come see me. My husband doesn't care and never comes to see me. I'd be happy if you were here.'

'Your husband is truly the worst guy I know. Of course I'll come. Can I bring my friends? Ony is a Christian.'

'Yes!'

'Why didn't you tell me you sing? We have a lot in common.'

'It didn't cross my mind, I don't know. When I'm with you, my mind forgets the outside world a little.'

'Hahah, that's my charm.'

────────

Nuestra Señora Reina Church of Los Angeles, located in Downtown Los Angeles, was your favorite church because it was the only church in Los Angeles that had helped immigrants, and in 1980 it was a sanctuary for migrants facing deportation. It had values you shared, and you were proud that it partnered with the organization where you sang your gospel choir.

Dressed in a white dress that didn't specifically hug your curves, only slightly revealing your wide hips and ample chest, which were impossible not to notice, you stood in front of the many religious people listening to you. Your hair was pulled back in an afro puff that exposed your face, framed by your large gold hoop earrings.

All your friends were also well-dressed and wore beautiful earrings, but Eren's eyes were fixed on you. Sitting in the aisles of the church pews, enveloped by the solemn atmosphere of the building, he could admire the gold-framed Christian paintings behind you, or gaze at the statue of the crucified Jesus on the wall to his left, but all his attention was focused on you. The sun streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the wooden pews and tiled floors of the small, packed church.

He was frustrated, a deep crease formed between his eyes.

“Man, you can’t be angry in a church,” Connie leaned over to whisper in Eren’s ear.

“I just don’t care about the rest of her choir, I just want to hear her,” he mumbled.

The melody of the chanting echoed between the walls, the soft female voices, and he could feel the faith and emotions in them without necessarily sharing the same beliefs. Setting a soulful rhythm, your voice rose into the air with the others, the notes rolling out like a prayer.

“It’s beautiful,” Ony declared.

“It’ll be even better if my girl was a soloist,” Eren grumbled, and Connie pressed his foot against his to silence him.

As if God heard his complaints, you stepped forward, the choir stopping singing to let you lead the rest of the song. Eren shuddered at your first notes, your voice rising, with perfect breath control, your vocal cords giving a harmonious sound, like honey to the ears of the audience.

“Hey, it would make a good interlude for your album. Like Yebba’s Heartbreak for Drake,” Ony nudged Eren.

The idea crept into his mind and he nodded, a warmth rising in the pit of his stomach at the thought of collaborating with you.

The music finally ended, the church filled with applause and praise as you smiled at the spectators. Eren wanted to capture this moment, finally a moment where you were doing something you truly enjoyed, and your husband wasn't even there to see how beautiful you looked when you were happy.

With his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans, he approached you as you spoke to some Christians.

“Yo.”

“Hey,” you greeted him, your smile widening for him. “I'm really glad you could come.”

“I would never have missed this.” You sweared as his eyes softened with affection for a moment. “What are you doing after this?”

“I'm coming home, my husband is coming home from work, I have to cook for him.”

He frowned. “You work too, why should you be the one cooking for him?”

“That’s how I was raised…”

“And?” An angry expression flashed across his face. “You’re not his servant as far as I know. It’s 2025, not 1960.”

“Cooking is my love language. I’ve always wanted to be a cook, so it makes me happy to cook for the people I love.”

“But you don’t love your husband,” he insisted, “you’re always texting me when you have to sleep with him at night.”

“Can you avoid talking about this in church?” You looked around to see that no one was listening.

A low chuckle rumbled in his throat, sarcasm in his voice. “Because inviting the guy you’re cheating on your husband with to church, isn’t that already a sin?”

You swallowed hard. “You have a point…”

“Your husband is going to cook for himself tonight, I’m taking you out to dinner tonight.” He grabbed your hand and pulled you behind him as you left the church with him, your eyes wide.

“Eren, I can’t-”

“Just tell him your friends wanted to celebrate the choir at church with a restaurant, and send him pictures of what you ate.”

“Are you used to sleeping with married women or something?” Your eyes narrowed with how quickly he had found an excuse.

“Maybe, we don’t know…” A mysterious smile formed on his mouth.

────────

Still in Downton L.A., in the Fashion District, was Connie's favorite restaurant: Dama, a Latin-inspired restaurant. When you walked inside, you were immediately amazed by how the brown color took over the cozy space with numerous plants illuminated by the soft light from the gold ceiling lamps. A square bar in the middle of the room, with dozens of chairs placed around it where you could see the bartenders working, attracted attention. Eren and you sat at a table a little far from the bar, near the windows where the leaves of the outdoor trees brushed against it.

"Connie is sponsored by this restaurant, he talks about it all the time," he teased.

"It's very pretty."

A waiter brought you the menu, and you let your eyes run over the paper. Eren was already a regular, so he already knew he was going to have the fried quesilladas. He stared at you, who had a focused expression.

“You always wear the same blush,” he remarked.

You looked up, your cheeks burning. “Um, yeah. It’s a NARS blush.”

“You say that like I’m going to use it.”

Your eyes lit up with amusement. “You’re right, sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, I’m not your strict parents.”

You chose fried calamari with red onions and tomatoes, and your dish and Eren’s arrived quickly. Eren ordered cocktails for you to try. It was nice to share a friendly moment with him like this, face to face with each other. Eren told you about the progress of his album, while you told him what you could about your job while respecting professional confidentiality. While you were eating, one of the waiters asked Eren for his autograph, which he happily signed, and you realized even more how popular he was.

“What would you do if you could have your own life?” he asked, bringing his glass back to his lips to take a sip of his cocktail. You swallowed the bite you were chewing to answer him.

“I think I would have opened my restaurant in Cape Verde or Brazil.”

“Brazil?” He quirked one of his eyebrows.

“Yeah, I really like Brazilian food. We have a lot in common in our culture with Brazilians, like carnivals. I would have loved to open a restaurant that serves food from all the Portuguese-speaking African countries besides Brazil. We share a similar history with colonization.”

“What is your best childhood memory in Cape Verde?”

Your lips curved into a fond smile. “The nights at the beach where we had barbecues. Seafood is very present in Cape Verde because we're surrounded by water, so I can still taste the shrimp we grilled.” You cocked your head to one side. “And you?”

He looked away, scratching the back of his head. “I think my best memories are when my dad was still here and my mom was still sober, but I don't like them because I feel like they're a big lie.” His voice was low, almost as if he didn't want you to hear the vulnerable tone.

“Tell me a little about your dad.”

His jaw tensed. “That asshole was a doctor. With my mom's job as an English teacher, we had a comfortable life, but everything was ruined around the time I was 13 when he decided to cheat on her for a younger woman.”

“Doesn't the fact that I cheat on my husband trigger you?”

“It wasn't really the infidelity that traumatized me. I think it was more that he completely cut us off from one day to the next. As if we were worthless. That's why I don't like to remember my childhood with him because I know he didn't care about us deep down.”

“I don't know how to answer that,” you choose your next words carefully. “I think telling you he loved you anyway when I don't know him is a bit tone-deaf, but reinforcing your idea that everything was fake doesn't sit right with me. Maybe the moments he shared with you were real, but when he falls in love, his world revolves around his partner and he forgets the rest.”

“Or he’s just a deadbeat dad…”

“Yeah, but… You know, my attorney friends who work for families have already seen fathers who want to have rights back over children they abandoned.”

He shook his head. “They don’t deserve anything. They weren’t there to raise the child, why come back when the mother has already done all the work?”

“You’re right…”

You continue talking, gulping down your desserts. When you get up after finishing eating, you take your wallet out of your bag, and Eren glared at you.

“You’re embarrassing me.” He took his black card out of his pocket and paid your meal bill.

“I’m not used to this. I do 50/50 with my husband.”

He huffed. “You’re going to hurt your body giving him babies, and you want to do 50/50? Men and women aren’t the same. You do so much more than him just to do 50/50.”

You didn’t like what he was saying because just imagining what it would be like to be his wife made your mouth water. He intertwined your hand with his, and the cold air outside made goosebumps rise on your arms as you stepped out. He opened the passenger door of his black luxury car for you, and you sat inside. A scent of vanilla enveloped the vehicle, which was soon overpowered by his expensive cologne when he plopped his ass on the driver’s seat.

“There's still a little time before you go home, it's early. Do you want to go for a car ride? I'll show you some songs you might like.” He started the car.

“Yeah, I would like to.” You grinned, happy to spend more time with him. There was so much you wanted to tell him, learn about him. He became like your best friend in just a few weeks.

Eren connected his Bluetooth to his car and “Too Deep” by dvsn filled the car, the notes soft and sensual.

“What kind of music is it? I like that.”

“It's R&B. There's Christian R&B that exists too, I'll make you a playlist.”

You leaned back against your seat, closing your eyes to listen to the music. PARTYNEXTDOOR, SZA, Jhené Aiko… All the R&B singers were echoing in the car. Eren lowered the cars as a small downpour fell on you, the sound of the misty rain accompanying the atmosphere.

“Have you never been in love?” you asked.

He kept his eyes on the road. “I already told you I don't do relationships.”

“But you must have fallen in love with someone without being able to control it…”

His lips twitched upward. “This isn't a romantic comedy.”

You chuckled. “I know, but it's sad to think you don't know what it's like to be in love.”

“You're literally in a loveless marriage and you're 33. Your situation is much sadder than mine.”

“Mhm, it's true.” You nodded. “I don't know what it's like to be in love and probably never will.”

“Let me show you then. Let's use each other. A real relationship between us is impossible in any case.”

Your eyes fluttered open and you turned your head to admire his handsome profile. “What do you mean by using each other?”

“If we're both incapable of living a love story, let's create one together. But without ever really going beyond the limits of what we truly are: an affair.”

You tilted your head. “And what would we do if we were in love?”

He glanced at you, a smirk on his face. “Exactly what I did tonight. We go to restaurants, we go on dates. We just don't meet up to only fuck.”

“But it's risky…” You flinched.

“Do you want to live your own life, yes or no? It starts like that, you have to take risks. You'll never discover freedom otherwise.”

The rest of the car ride passed in silence, Eren just playing his playlist for you while you noted down a few songs in your phone notes. Arriving near your building, Eren parked. You leaned towards him to give him a kiss on the cheek.

“Think about me a lot.”

“I always think about you,” you replied as you left the vehicle. Eren's eyes followed you until you disappeared into your apartment building.

────────

Eren had never experienced what it was like to be in love, so he was unable to realize that he was sinking into the abyss of love with you. Everything changed one Friday when he called you while you were working from home, weeks after your dinner at the restaurant.

“Rennie, I’m busy, you-”

Your voice stopped when you heard sniffles on the other end of the phone. Your heart tightened.

“Why are you crying?”

“That’s so embarrassing, forget that,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse before hanging up.

You stared at your phone for a few seconds, confused, before calling him back. He only picked up on the third attempt.

“What?”

His voice was harsh; you weren’t used to dealing with an Eren like this. You chose your words carefully.

“It’s okay, you can talk to me.”

“I need more than just to talk to you.”

You glanced at the clock high on the living room wall.

“My husband will be home in two hours, so if you have time to come…”

“Your husband this, your husband that,” he grumbled. “I’m tired of this shit.”

He hung up like that, but you knew he was coming. Thirty minutes later, he knocked on your door. When you opened it, your heart skipped a beat at the sight of his reddish-green, puffy eyes. They were still wet, as if he’d been crying throughout the car drive.

“Eren…” You wrapped your arms around him, trying to comfort him with your warmth. His body was stiff, his body suddenly harder than usual.

“I didn’t come for this.”

“Drop the tough boy act,” you chided him. “Hug me too.”

He let out a heavy breath and hugged you too, pressing you against his chest. People were leaving the apartments near yours, and a shiver of fear that someone would find out about your infidelity gripped you. You guided him inside your home, still cuddling him.

“My mom has become a prostitute,” he declared, his voice low, almost inaudible, as if he didn’t want you to hear what he was saying.

“What do you mean?” You frowned.

“There’s a man on the streets of Skid Row. He’s homeless, but he knows everyone in town. I asked him to watch my mom when I’m not there. He just told me she’s started selling her body to get more drugs.”

“Oh,” you breathed, the weight of his confidence heavy in your heart. “I’m really sorry, Eren. You did so much for her, and-”

“I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity. I’m genuinely sad for you.” You tightened your arms around him. “Stop dismissing the emotions I feel for you.”

His heart raced, your cheek pressed just against the skin of his torso, as if your words had a special effect on him.

“I don’t know why I called you, I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me, Eren.”

“It’s just…” he began, his head lowering to place his mouth on the top of your head. “I felt like you would understand me better than my friends. Men aren’t the best at comforting other men.”

“You did the right thing.” You nuzzled his chest. “We’re friends, we should be able to be vulnerable like this with each other.”

A sarcastic chuckle escaped his mouth. “Right, we are ‘friends’...”

He sat on the sofa, carrying you with him so you could find your place on his lap. Your hands dived into his hair, stroking the soft dark locks, slicking them back to better gaze at his morose face. You tilted your head, your gaze locking.

“Why are you so…” You bit your lower lip, searching for the right word. “Grumpy when you cry?”

His lips twitched upward. “I’m not grumpy.”

“You basically called me a bitch on the phone.”

“That’s a reach.”

“Barely.” You wiped away the tears that continued to fall with your thumbs. “I don’t like seeing you like that. It hurts me when you cry.”

“You’re becoming too attached to me.” You didn’t need to know the feeling was mutual.

“Please.” You looked up in annoyance, and Eren smirked at your sass. “We have a deep bond together.”

“Do we?” He leaned over, his breath caressing your face.

“Don’t flirt with me when you’re crying.”

“I’m a versatile man.” He captured your lips in a deep kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth. Your tongues tangled together for a few moments in languid pace before the salty taste of his tears mingled with your passion.

“I’m just tired of everything,” he murmured. “I don’t even know why I care so much about my mom. I’ve done everything for her these past few years, even though her whole life has been drugs. Mikasa and I haven’t existed in her world since my father left.”

“Why don't you pay someone to take care of her?”

“Take care of her how? She tries to kill herself whenever she doesn't have her drugs. Do you think I'm happy leaving her alone on the street?” His face hardened. “They're writing articles about me, saying I'm abandoning my mother and letting her prostitute herself. They know nothing about my life.”

“You need to sue them, they have no right to defame you like that,” you informed, your voice firm, in your attorney mode.

“You're cute when you're like that.”

He rubbed his nose against yours.

“What are you doing?”

“An Eskimo kiss, didn't you know that?”

“Yes, I know.” You smiled. “I just thought you were too depressed for that.”

“Never too depressed for an Eskimo kiss.” He kissed you again. “I have to go to the studio to see Ony.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in worry. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“Of course not. I feel like shit, but I have no choice. My album is coming out soon.” He pulled his face back to look at you better. “Thanks for listening.”

Your eyes softened with empathy. “No problems, Eren.”

Your heart squeezed painfully as you let him leave your apartment, hands in the pockets of his jeans. You hoped the short time you spent together had soothed the ache in his mind.

In a way, you had succeeded, and Eren was grateful to have you in his life.

────────

Sitting in the waiting room, illuminated by the artificial lights above him, enveloped by the "antiseptic" atmosphere of the abortion center with its blue and white walls, Eren's foot twitched on the floor every few seconds. He bit his lower lip in a nervous gesture, his hands interlaced on his lap, his legs manspreading.

It was two months after he learned his mother was a prostitute. He did what he could to protect her, but it wasn't easy to control someone who dedicated their life to drugs.

One morning, you called him after feeling excruciating pain in your lower abdomen. Your husband was at work, and he accompanied you to the emergency room. Verdict: you were pregnant.

You weren't shocked by the news because for several weeks now, your husband had refused to let you take the contraceptive pill, considering it was the right time to have a child. You hadn't been able to verbalize the fact that you didn't want children for fear of reprisals.

Eren had volunteered to accompany you during the abortion procedure, secretly from your husband. He didn't want you to be forced into motherhood when you didn't want to.

You left the operating room with your head bowed, your left hand holding your right wrist, accompanied by the doctor. Eren immediately stood up to hug you. He knew this was difficult for you because of your religious beliefs, and wanted to show you that he was there for you.

He pressed a soft kiss on your forehead and intertwined his fingers with yours, guiding you toward the exit.

Outside, a group of pro-life people shouted insults at everyone leaving the building, holding fetus signs. You flinched and stared at the ground until you reached his car.

“Don't listen to them, they don't know anything about your life.” He started the car and pulled out of the parking lot.

You leaned back in the seat, your expression somber as you looked at the road.

“Eren, I think we should stop seeing each other.”

He paused, his heart pounding in his chest. He glanced at you, his eyes searching for the humor in your gaze.

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“I've been committing nothing but sins since I've been with you. I don't recognize myself anymore.”

His heart ached at that. “Look, I understand what you mean. What we're doing goes against your beliefs. But that doesn't mean we should stop. It makes you feel good when I spend time with you, doesn't it? You wouldn't have agreed to the abortion if I wasn't there, right? I'm good for you. Tell me I'm good for you.”

His voice trembled towards the end, as if he was desperately clinging to something that might validate your unhealthy bond. His eyes implored you to confirm what he was saying. You looked away, your gaze lost through the window.

“I think I need some distance, Eren.”

The feeling of being abandoned once again by someone important pierced his heart, like a knife penetrating his organ. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, swallowing hard.

“Okay.”

────────

It had been a month since you and Eren had been in touch. Eren had a hard time getting used to the long days without speaking to you; he missed your sophisticated and polite messages. But he understood. Your life was complicated. He would wait for you to want to talk to him again when it was okay with you.

While he was chatting with his friends about the final preparations before his album release, which was next week, you called him. His heart leaped at the notification, and he rushed out of the studio to take the call. The moon lit up his face, framed by shoulder-length brown hair.

“Hey Rennie,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse from crying.

“What's wrong?” His voice softened.

“My husband is cheating on me. Funny, right? I'm doing the same, but I don't know why it hurts so much. I did everything for him, and this is how he thanks me?”

Eren sent a quick message to his boys, apologizing for leaving, and got into his car.

“Where is he?”

“At the house of the woman he's cheating on me with. He's been saying for weeks that he's going to the bar with friends, but I found some false eyelashes in his pocket. Probably a woman younger than me.”

“That's a good excuse to see me. I'll be right there.”

────────

Eren embraced you the second you opened the door. Kissing your forehead, his hands made soothing circles on your back as his heavy gaze looked over you.

“You need some dick to take your mind off things,” he murmured, his breath brushing your face as he caught sight of you crying, mascara running down your cheeks.

“Make me forget about this day, please.” You pressed yourself against him, your big doe eyes begging him to take you.

His eyes darkened, and he reached under your ass to lift you and carry you to your room.

He peppered your face with kisses during the short walk to where you were sleeping before gently setting you down on the bed. “What You Need” by The Weeknd played in the room, the playlist you'd put on to take your mind off things still playing. It was Eren's recommendation, and he was pleased that you listened to the songs he sent you.

“Don't you think the lyrics suit us well?” He removed your nightie and his own clothes, his hands caressing your flesh all over your body. The 'he's what you want, I'm what you need' filled the room with sensual notes.

You squeezed your eyes shut, letting the frenzy of the sensation of his hands on your skin carry you away. You joined the singer in moaning when his fingers found your core to trace circles on your throbbing bud, his lips trailing feverish kisses down your inner thighs. When his fingers sank into you, curling inside to touch that spongey spot inside you, you arched your spine off the bed, your hands tugging at his hair.

After a month, you missed his dick. In a spoon position, Eren pressed his muscular chest against your back, his hands gripping your pudgy belly as he pushed his girthy inches through your wet folds. He buried his face in your neck, breathing softly as his hips brushed your ass with each of his deep thrusts.

“I missed this, ma’,” he whispered against you, his voice soft and husky.

“I missed you too.”

His hands moved up to knead your breasts while his mouth possessed every bit of skin exposed to it, inflicting torture on your neck. Your walls fluttered around his cock as he plunged in and out of you, his pace slow and gentle, like a secret intimate dance just for the two of you.

In the intimacy of the moment, Eren realized he couldn't let you go back to your husband. He squeezed your breasts forcefully, with greed. Only he could make you happy. Your husband didn't deserve you, and you didn't deserve to end your miserable life with a man who wasn't your soulmate like Eren was.

“You can't go back to him,” he mumbled. “Your place is with me. I'll be the most loyal man you've ever seen, and I'll support you in your dreams. No one will force you to have children; you'll be free and happy. You will be my christian older girl. I will take care of you.”

You flinched. “Eren, I already told you—”

“Told what?” he huffed. “That you're a doormat? I know, thanks. What I mean is, you don't need to stay like this with him. You could be fulfilled with me; I'll do whatever you want. I'll even pay you what it takes to open your restaurant in Cape Verde, just like you wanted.”

It's a good thing you weren't face to face because he couldn't see your eyes welling up.

“Eren, these are just dreams. I'll never achieve them. I'm stuck.”

“You're stuck because you choose to be. You're 33, aren't you tired of having your life dictated to you? Aren't you tired of not having a choice? Are you too scared to disobey your parents? Ask yourself how your inner child must feel about living a future she didn't even decide on.”

“You're mean, Eren.”

“I'm just telling the truth, baby.” He kissed the few tears that rolled down your cheeks. He rolled his hips just right, angled perfectly to brush your g-spot as his elbow was under your knee. Your sniffles mingled with your whimpers as pleasure shook you in intense waves. “Divorce your husband,” he murmured near your ear, his voice rapsy.

Your body shook. “Eren, I can't.”

“Why?” His lips wrapped around your earlobe, sucking it. You struggled to focus on the conversation.

“Divorcing my husband means denying me the life my parents want for me. I can’t do that to them, not after everything they’ve sacrificed for me.”

“So you’re going to accept painful pregnancies to please your parents when you don’t want children? Do you see yourself spending your days changing diapers and breastfeeding your babies? Being a housewife who does all the difficult chores around the house while your ungrateful husband comes home from work only to eat and sleep? Is that your future?”

Your heart gripped with dread as you visualized your everyday future. Losing yourself in motherhood was everything you feared.

“With me, you wouldn’t need to do that,” he continued, “I’ll only be happy if you are. You can be anything you want to be with me.”

“Eren,” you sniffled, “I told you I can’t.”

His jaw tensed. He lifted your leg higher and began to slam his hips against your ass with more harshness and aggression, making your cunt pulsate around him.

“Do you enjoy letting people walk all over you? Are you a masochist? Does it give you pleasure to suffer?”

“N-No…”

“So what? Why are you so attached to other people’s opinions?”

“I want my parents to be proud of me, they did so much for me.”

He looked up in annoyance.

“And I, I want you to be happy,” he rasped against your ear. “Even if it means disappointing your parents.”

You loved Eren so much. He was only interested in your happiness and didn’t care what others expected of you. If nobody had your back, you know Eren would. But your relationship was impossible, and he had to understand that. Even if the words hurt you, sounding false on your tongue, you had to say them.

“We're not a couple, we were only supposed to use each other. There's nothing deep between us.”

His heart squeezed painfully. A quiet, sad laugh escaped his lips.

“And to think I thought we were getting closer, you just see me as a booty call?”

“Eren, that’s not what I said—”

He pulled you out, getting up from the bed to get dressed. You sobbed as you watched him put on his jeans.

“Eren, please—”

He gave you a cold glare before leaving your room. “It’s your husband or me.”

────────

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

The room's dim red lights illuminated Eren's face, which was partially hidden by the hood of his black hoodie. Sitting on the brown sofa, manspreading, he listened to his interviewer ask him questions about his album.

“A lot of people are saying that you're one of the most influential rappers on the West Coast, but that your lack of a specific genre is your worst flaw.”

His lips quirked up. “They're kind of right.”

“You don't mind the critics from what I see.”

“You know, a woman that I really loved told me that God granted my wishes, and I should be grateful. So that's the mindset I'm building my career with. Haters can talk, but as Jay Rock said, ‘you ain't gotta like it 'cause the hood gone love it.’”

“Is this the same woman you talk about in your track ‘Poetic Justice’?”

Eren's jaw tightened a bit, but he nodded. “Yeah. Pretty much all my recent music is about her now.”

“What inspired you to write that track? It's very sad.”

“It's about us, so of course it's sad. We didn't have a happy ending.”

“I sense a lot of anger in you, am I wrong?” The interviewer offered a kind smile.

“A bit,” he let out a sigh. “I still resent her.”

“Do you want to talk about her?”

“I don't really know what more I can say about her. She was a woman I loved very much, but love isn't enough sometimes.”

“A lot of your fans were surprised that you talked about a girl. You're kind of seen as a nonchalant artist who's never had a girlfriend before.”

“I'm still surprised that I was attached to her. It wasn't planned.”

“I hate when rappers are mysterious like this, tell us more!”

His lips curved into a smile. “I have a reputation as a nonchalant guy to keep up.”

The interview ended thirty minutes later. With a quick car drive, he arrived at Connie's house. He gave handshakes to all his best friends before sitting down on the couch and lighting his blunt.

Marvins room by Drake played in the living room.

“Fuck that nigga that you love so bad

I know you still think about the times we had

I say fuck that nigga that you think you found

And since you picked up

I know he’s not around.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking about you. It's been 3 years since he was in contact with you. He felt like you were a drug and he was going through withdrawal, his hands itching to check your Facebook account and see how you were doing and how capable you were of putting on a fake smile for those around you.

His eyes fluttered open, and he opened the Facebook app, having created an account solely to stalk you. Your twin daughters were now two years old. Everyone complimented your daughters, saying you were cute, just like their mother. Only he knew you must have cried every night.

Drake's son ended so that "Too Fast" by Sonder filled the room.

“Tell me what I got to prove

(While I was working)

I don't mean nothing to you

(I hope you're hurting)

You ain't got nothing to say

(While I was working)

You're too good at walking away

(I hope you're hurting).”

He didn't want you to suffer. He hoped you would always think of him the way he thought of you.

It was him or your husband.

And every day, he mourned the day you chose your husband.

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