I don't know how to say this... @nininikki - Tumblr Blog

- lilac fever ⊹ ࣪ ˖

relationship : Eren Yeager x Reader

word count : 13.8k

tags : brief Mikasa x Reader, Modern AU, Inspired by southern America, Coming of Age, Summer, Mentions of wealth, Smut, Gratuitous Smut, Best Friend’s Brother, Age Gap, Older Man/ Younger Woman, Eren is early 30s, You and Mikasa are early 20s, Underage Kissing, Fingering, Outdoor Sex, Oral Sex, Minor Intox, Minor Dubcon.

summary : Lilacs, particularly light purple ones, are often associated with the initial emotions and excitement of first love. White lilacs are often seen as symbols of purity and youthful innocence.

read on ao3

notes : hi !!!! this is my first fic , and i’ve been thinking about it forever . i hope u all enjoy and part 2 is coming soon <333

part i : cottonmouth

The June heat is oppressive, relentless in its fury; a thick, heavy, orange haze hangs in the air, oozing over you like burnt honey— thick, sickeningly sweet. Clinging to your skin, turning your breath sluggish. You're stretched out on a sun-drenched lounger; Mikasa’s head resting softly in your lap, her sunglasses slipping down the gentle slope of her nose, a dog-eared copy of Bonjour Tristesse idling on her hip. You stroke her hair gently, twirling the dark strands around your fingers. Thick, inky, sleek against her alabaster skin, like a Russian doll. The cicadas scream, and somewhere, on the edge of the world—

Clang. Clang. Clang.

—the distant sounds of life persist, faint and insistent.

Her voice floats to you through the haze. Ugh, I need to reapply my sunscreen, dreamlike, barely there. A quick, smacking kiss to your cheek, gone before it lands, and she disappears inside, light on her feet like she’s dancing.

Noon.

The hour of heatstroke, the Lord’s Prayer, and bodies half-asleep in their own sweat. You exhale, slow and lazy, like the sun’s wrung all the urgency out of you, leaving you floating in a shimmering, exhausted haze.

(“It’s time to pray, sweetheart,” your mother gently hummed as she plaited your hair—)

Your arm drapes across your eyes. One leg bent lazily, the other trailing off the edge of the lounger, toes wiggling in time with the cicadas. Sunlight bathes your skin in a slow, golden embrace, its warm fingers catching in the hollow of your throat, accentuating the gentle dip of your belly button. The heat caramelises you, turning your skin bronzy and warm. You stretch, arms overhead, a soft sigh slipping from your lips like the heat has kissed you.

(—“the Devil’s lurking outside, waiting to come get the people who keep working, drinking, or dawdling,” your mother’s voice echoes, a whisper of warning carried on the summer air.)

You’ve come back all grown up.

It’s so, so hot. You’re melting, just a pat of butter sliding over a stack of pancakes. The radio thrums low on the table next to you, grainy with static, some old station lost in the heat.

Well, say it ain’t so.

Some low, rumbling voice ropes you out of your slump. That lazy southern drawl like molasses, seeps into your bones; no, you recognise him—

By the weight of his footfalls across the creaking deck. By the sharp ozone scent of sweat and sun-warmed denim. By that presence, like something just walked out of a memory you tried to forget.

—before you even lift your head.

His image ripples in the heatwaves, blurred at the edges, like a picture scribbled outside the lines, unfinished and flickering. The kind of figure you might dream up in the haze of a fever, too lucid to be real and yet… there. Solid. Heavy. Tall, with muscle that stretches tight beneath umber skin, all golden and tanned like he’d been carved straight from sandstone.

Like an oasis in a desert, Eren startles you; water in your lungs, biting into a cold pear with sunburned lips. His lakewater eyes flash as he stares at you, hungry and indulgent. His shock of hair, long, loose, dark, clings to his jaw and neck, sticky with sweat, and he looks like a summer mirage.

Not soft.

Not sweet.

But clean in the way that comes after fire, like something new clawing its way out of ash.

Eren, you said his name like it was a dare, soft and drawn out.

Ain’t seen you in so long, I half-thought I was dreamin’ again.

That white shirt clings to his frame, damp across the chest, chain catching the light like it means to blind you. Planting a steady hand on the headboard of your sunbed, he leans in, dangerously close, enough that his necklace sways between you both, pendulum-smooth, like he’s hypnotising you. Eren’s leaning over you, and in the silhouette of the sunlight, you think he’s smiling.

How you doin’, sugar? Must’ve been months since I last saw you, huh? His voice is warm honey, poured over gravel, slightly hoarse from Marlboro smoke. You here for the summer?

You nod, breathless.

He tuts low under his breath, glancing toward the house. You got sweet folks waitin’ at home for you, and you out here runnin’ wild. A pause. City treat you well?

You don’t trust your voice, so you nod again.

Mikasa leave you out here all by your lonesome? His voice curls around you like smoke, he tsks. Dangerous for a girl like you. Need me to babysit you, kid?

You scrunch your nose, petulant: Don’t call me that. I don’t need looking after.

He chuckles. Mm, I remember when you couldn’t even tie your own swimsuit, he whispers, his voice dripping nostalgia. His fingers brush your shoulder. Just a flicker. Then, with maddening ease, he slips a finger beneath your bikini strap, peels it back slow, inspects that delicate, sun-kissed tan line beneath— the elastic snaps back with a sound that cracks like lightning.

(“Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop,” your mother whispers with a tremor in her voice. “You must pray fiercely, and stand firm against every evil and temptation he throws your way.”)

He leans in, voice just above a whisper.

Used to help you with your homework, remember that? You’d sit on the porch swing and spell out your vocab words.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, Now look at you.

Your throat tightens—

You with homework and shy glances; him, barefoot on the porch with a beer bottle and a laugh like thunder. You were naive, stupid, so foolish for the way your heart jolted wildly in your chest every time he looked your way. And you're still stupid, still falling, still unravelling at the thought of him.

You swallow, trembling as you muster your voice. I’m not a little girl anymore.

Oh, darlin’, he murmurs, voice caught somewhere between reverence and desire. Don’t I know it? His knuckle traces the curve of your cheek, gentle as the breeze.

The back door creaks open.

(“But, Mama?” You kneel between her legs, the rough carpet biting into your thighs, your voice trembling with conviction. “I know what the Devil looks like. I won’t let him trick me.”)

Tell me, doll, he says, leaning in, quieter now. Thumb brushing against your lower lip. You still got those manners, or did the city smooth all that sweetness outta you?

“What the hell, Eren?” Mikasa’s voice cuts sharply and suddenly across the heat: “Quit harassing her!”

“I ain’t doin’ nothin’ of the sort, Mikasa. Just sayin’ hello,” he says without turning, still holding eye contact with you.

“Say it somewhere else.” Mikasa snaps, her voice firm and impatient.

He straightens, all mock innocence. He clicks his tongue, not quite offended, not quite apologetic. “Is that any way to talk to your brother?”

And just like that, he’s leaving. You watch him saunter off, all boots and swagger and sun-drunk charm. You’re left in the heat, the silence, and the ghost of his voice curling like smoke in your chest.

Mikasa doesn’t respond; she just tilts her head toward you slightly, lips parted like she might say something and never does. The light hits her dark hair and makes it gleam blue, like oil dancing on water. Your stomach flips, and you close your eyes again.

(She sighs deeply, her eyes filled with a mixture of worry and love as she brushes a hand gently over your face. “He’s closer than you realise,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. “He wears a smile like lightning, his tongue moves like quicksilver. Don’t let the devil take you dancing, sweet girl. You’ll twirl all the way to Hell’s doorstep, and no one will come to save you— not even me.”)

And as you lift your gaze once more, you see him at the end of the porch, watching you with that same slow, wicked smile that makes your blood run cold.

“Don’t be a stranger, sweetheart,” Eren drawls, his voice low and tempting. “I’ll be seein’ you around.”

Clang. Clang. Clang.

The sun’s sitting high and mean in the sky, white-hot and blinding. You lean heavily against the kitchen sink, surrendering yourself to the cool glass of lemonade in your hand, ice already melted down to weak sweetness.

Out the window, Eren is there— working tirelessly on his truck. Its bold red paint, once vibrant, now faded and sun-bleached at the hood. He built it himself, pouring his heart into every bolt, every inch. You can still remember the way he taught you to drive stick in that very vehicle, pride lighting up his eyes.

Now, shirtless under the blazing sun, his shoulders are tanned and tough, glistening with sweat that catches the light like tiny stars. His hair curls in wild, carefree tangles from the heat, and his back muscles ripple as he works with fierce focus. The engine’s wide-open, he’s wrist-deep in grease; hands smudged with the dark, sticky truth of hard work, dirt smudged along his jaw. Every few moments, he wipes the sweat off his face with the hem of his shirt, but he never bothers to put it back on. You press your thighs together, your stomach burning.

You know you shouldn’t be watching. But you can’t tear your eyes away.

And then, as your breath catches, he looks up. Like he felt your gaze, like he’s been waiting for you to notice.

You freeze, your lemonade hovering mid-sip, heart pounding loud in your chest.

He grins, easy, confident, and tosses his rag aside. You hurriedly turn to rinse your glass, pretending you weren’t staring, but the kitchen door creaks softly behind you, giving away that you’re anything but subtle.

Heavy boots. The whir of the ceiling fan.

“Hey, sweetheart,” a whistle, calling you to his feet, like a dog. And it makes you keen, drool, pant.

“Hi,” you whisper, voice trembling. You chew your lip, but that nervous flutter in your stomach only grows stronger. Now he’s closer, close enough that you can catch the faint, intimate scent of soap on his skin, the musk of summer heat, a hint of mint, all things that make your pulse race.

Then: Hotter than the devil’s mouth out there, his voice breathless, yet easy, as if he’s unfazed by the sweltering world outside.

You respond with a guarded hum, your fingers nervously fidgeting with the loose hem of your shirt, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.

His grin widens, eyes gleaming with something unspoken. Saw you watchin’, he says, his voice laced with a quiet challenge.

Your face flushes instantly, a wave of embarrassment and something deeper flooding through you. “I was not,” you whisper, voice trembling.

“You were,” he insists, crossing his arms, his biceps flexing with a quiet strength that makes your breath catch. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with lookin’, sweetheart. Just surprised you ain’t comin' out to say hi no more.”

Your gaze drops to your trembling hands, shame and longing swirling inside you. “You were busy,” you mumble, barely able to meet his gaze.

“Not that busy,” he counters softly, his eyes softening, yet still holding that undeniable weight.

A heavy silence falls between you, thick with unspoken emotions. The hum of the fan above seems deafening now; a bead of sweat traces a slow path down your spine, stirring feelings you can't quite name.

You used to run out there the moment you heard the engine roar, he murmurs, voice rumbling.

He pushes off the counter, closing the distance between you. His eyes hold yours with an intensity that makes your heartbeat thunder in your ears.

“That was a long time ago,” you whisper, your voice quiet.

“Not that long,” he replies, but your heart feels the weight of all the time lost in that simple phrase.

He leans past you to grab a cold bottle of beer from the fridge. The brush of his chest against your arm is deliberate. So is the way he opens the bottle with the edge of the counter, flicking the cap into the sink.

“You always been this quiet?” he smirks, voice just above a whisper.

Yeah.

He chuckles softly, a warm, low sound that lingers in the air. “Mm,” he murmurs. “That right?” He takes a drink, his eyes locking onto yours over the bottle, intense and unreadable. “No need to be so frigid. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

You bite your lip, hesitant.

Friends?

“Yeah,” you finally whisper.

He nods, and there’s a sudden darkness in his smile, a slow-burning smoulder that makes your heart race. “Good,” he says softly, his voice tinged with something more, something dangerous. “You got a boyfriend?”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “What?”

He shrugs nonchalantly, as if it’s nothing. “Just askin’. No city boys lined up to take you dancin’? No sweet-talker to chase you home?” He leans back against the counter, letting silence stretch between you like a fragile thread. “You can tell me, sweetheart. I won’t run off and tell your mama, cross my heart.”

That teasing promise stirs something deep within you, and a genuine giggle escapes. “I don’t.”

“Mikasa mentioned someone… Reiner, maybe?”

Oh. Your cheeks flush. “That’s– we– we’re not–”

“Ah.” His eyes light. “Gotcha. What happened to loverboy?”

It’s hard to admit, but you reply softly, “It’s– we’re not seeing each other anymore.”

He doesn’t smile. Not exactly. But something relaxes in his shoulders, like your answer was the first sip of a cold drink on a hot day.

“Good,” he says. Then, after a beat: I mean, I’m sorry.

You’re not.

Your lips twitch. His do, too.

I’m not, he admits, voice softer now, rough with something like hope. But I’m tryin’, darlin’. God knows I am.

He’s watching you again. Eyes all heavy-lidded and hooded, like he’s not just looking at you but through you. You wonder if he can feel how fast your heart’s beating; wonder if he’s doing it on purpose, standing too close, speaking too soft.

“Are you always this nosy with your friends?” you ask, trying to hide the tremor in your voice.

He smiles, slow and crooked. “Only the ones wearin’ my favourite perfume.”

You look away, heat blooming under your skin, blooming lower in your stomach. The sunshine is warm, but it isn't what’s making you sweat.

He takes another swig of beer, hissing a little through his teeth, shaking his head as it bit him back. Silence laps between the two of you, soft and warm. Crickets hum beyond the fence. The sun spills in through the curtains, and his eyes, green, unreadable, glow just faintly in the low light. Your mouth parted just the tiniest bit while you stared, soft and pink and kissable.

You’re not sure who leans in first. Maybe you both do. It’s a magnet, a pull, a gravity you can’t explain, faces close enough to feel the breath between you.

A sharp breath—

Wouldn’t be right, he mutters, syllables hoarse. Not like this. Not while you’re still tryin’ to figure out what you want. He exhales through his nose.

Your throat tightens. What if you already know?

He steps back before you can reply. His boots leave scuff marks on the floor as he walks back toward the porch. He doesn’t look back.

Just says, over his shoulder:

Don’t wear that perfume unless you mean it.

And then he’s gone.

By the time the immediate shock had softened into memory, a few short weeks had passed. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over everything when Mikasa's voice cuts through the quiet—

The blackberries, Eren, they're coming back in! Please, take us to the field!

—pleading, her eyes shining with longing and excitement, as if this simple moment is a treasured escape.

Eren scoffs, the smoke from his cigarette curling into the air, his voice laced with irritation. “I ain't your damn chauffeur anymore, Mika. You can drive yourself.”

She huffs, her voice waning just a little with desperation. “I don’t have my license yet, you know that. Please, please take us.” Her eyes plead with unspoken emotion.

He grunts, trying to be indifferent, but there's a flicker of resignation. “I’m a grown man. I can’t babysit you and your—” his gaze drifts over you, and he presses his hand to his crotch awkwardly, as if trying to hide his frustration. “Your friend all day. I got things to do.”

“Fridays are your days off! Please, just this once. We really want to go,” Mikasa's voice wavers with earnestness, tugging at his shirt, her eyes searching his face for a glimmer of compassion.

He sighs deeply, his expression softening as he turns to look at you. “Do you want to go?” His voice is gentle, tinged with hesitation and a quiet resignation.

You nod, twirling your hair nervously, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah, it would be fun.” Your words are filled with a fragile excitement.

He rubs his hand over his face, the weight of his decisions evident, yet he can’t resist the pleading in your eyes. The moment lingers in the air, heavy with unspoken feelings.

Finally, he breathes out sharply, his tone tinged with reluctant affection: Get my fucking keys, Mikasa.

Your car journey feels endless yet impossibly brief; Mikasa sitting beside Eren in the front, delicately reapplying her lipstick in her compact mirror, her presence a gentle ritual that ignites a tender warmth within you.

You lean against the window, your gaze fixed on the rural tapestry of the world sliding past: the vibrant lilies and delicate hydrangeas, the cosy diner tucked among the sprawling Tuscan-style homes.

These sights are more than scenery—

Eren drives with a calm confidence, one hand steady on the wheel, the other softly tapping to the beat of the song that stirs the air. At a red light, he subtly reaches behind his seat, his fingers gliding gently along your calf, an unspoken gesture full of affection and reassurance. The surprise flickers across your face as your eyes meet his reflected in the rearview mirror; his wink is a secret shared between us, a promise amid the silence. Suddenly, the light blares green, and his hands swiftly find their place on the wheel, grounding you in the present.

—they are fragments of home, woven into the fabric of your soul.

Together, you and Mikasa wander the fields with a woven basket, laughter spilling freely as you swat at playful bugs, your joy echoing through the trees. The woods are a wild sanctuary, thick brambles bursting with ripe berries, sticky juice staining your fingertips, a messy, beautiful reminder of the bounty of life. You both bend and pick amidst the wilderness, sunlight filtering through leaves, casting golden shadows on your skin, thorns grazing your arms; each moment a testament to your shared adventure, raw and alive, pulsating with the heartbeat of an unbreakable bond.

You’re left wandering the fields by yourself as Mikasa wanders off a bit further to find some larger berries.

It gnaws at you, pitting your stomach like a pomegranate, that you secretly crave her brother.

You've known each other through every twist and turn, your hearts intertwined from the very beginning.

The guilt wounds you. How could you betray her trust, hide your feelings behind her back?

(“You're my very best friend, you know," she whispers as she paints your fingers a deep, cobalt blue. A flicker of emotion lights up her eyes as she confesses, "Sometimes, I honestly feel like we're destined to be sisters.”)

Yet, deep inside, you know: there’s no one else it could be.

He’s tall, strong, irresistibly handsome, and funny in that way only he can be.

And now, with the way he looks at you, like he’s never seen you before, it shatters your very soul.

(Her voice trembles with sincerity as she blows softly on your nails, her bangs brushing against her cheek. "Promise me we'll always stay friends, no matter what. And that nothing will ever change between us.")

He hasn’t changed, still talking like he’s roped straight from a cowboy movie— still smoking those Marlboros.

But you have. You’re not a little girl anymore. You’ve blossomed into someone new, a restless, vibrant woman with that early spring glow, a hunger inside you that’s impossible to ignore. You wear that ripening look, like a peach succumbing to the intense kiss of summer’s heat; bruised but bursting with every sweet, forbidden secret, with summer’s bounty too quick, too fleeting, burning in your veins.

And him. He looks at you like he's starving, ravenous beyond reason, like he’s about to devour something he’s desperately been craving, himself included.

You reach down for a large, juicy blackberry, lost in thought, and your finger snags on a thorn.

A sharp hiss escapes your lips as you yelp and jerk your hand away, blood immediately welling up and dripping in a vivid crimson trail. In an instant, Eren is there by your side, concern etched on his face, and you had momentarily forgotten he was here with you two.

“You okay, sweetheart?” his eyes are on your face, searching deeply. His hands grip yours.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, voice trembling, trying to convince yourself as much as him. “Just an accident.”

His voice is soft but filled with certainty and warmth. Yeah, you’re alright, baby, he murmurs, as if anchoring you to the safety of his words. Without hesitation, he lifts your finger to his lips, his gentle suction soothing the sting of blood— careful, tender, reverent. The sensation makes you gasp, a breath caught between vulnerability and something deeper. You almost pull back, embarrassed by the intensity of your reaction.

But he only chuckles softly, a sound rich with affection, and places a small, lingering kiss on the tip of your finger. All better now, hm? Still such a clutz, aren’t you?

The sun shines down on your hair, turning it a golden halo. You look so beautiful, so free, so vibrant. You part your lips to answer, but all that comes out is a small whimper.

His eyes, wild and searching, flicker across your face, and in that fleeting moment, a tenderness erupts within them, burning brighter than the sun itself.

You’re quiet for a second too long, pulse fluttering. “This is all just fun for you, right? A game?” You can't stand not knowing anymore. This uncertainty, this hunger, is eating you from the inside out.

He steps closer, his voice rough with urgent intensity: Is that what you think?

You instinctively step back, heart pounding, voice catching in your throat. “That’s all it can ever be,” you whisper, voice breaking. “You know that.”

A harsh, almost bitter laugh escapes him, sharp, jagged, full of frustration and longing. “What, you telling me you can’t keep a secret?”

(You tilt your head, smiling tenderly as you pinch her cheek and laugh softly. "That's so silly, Mikasa. I would never let that happen," you say, your voice thick with affection. "You're, like, my soulmate.")

“No,” you gasp, voice trembling, “It’s not a secret… It's betrayal. I can’t– I can’t do this. I can’t lie to her.” Panic floods your veins as you pull away, tears threatening to spill, and stumble toward his truck.

Your limbs feel disconnected as you pull away, escaping toward his van, desperate to put distance between you and the wreckage threatening to consume you.

He grunts in frustration and yanks you back by your belt loops, his grip firm but trembling. His eyes dart over your face: What, you won’t even try? Just gonna give it up, just like that? You think this ain’t worth it?

Your hands tremble as they press against his chest, uncertain whether to push him away or to hold him closer, your heart seesawing wildly. “It’s not just about me,” you whisper, voice cracking with emotion. “I can’t lose both of you. If Mikasa finds out… she’ll never forgive me. I’d rather die than hurt her like that.”

His voice drops, low and coaxing, like a rumble beneath your skin: “She’ll forgive you. You know she loves you.”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear and takes a deep, steadying breath. His next words are almost tumbling out of his mouth before suddenly, Mikasa bursts through the fields, bounding toward you like a breath of fresh air.

Startled, you leap apart from him, leaving a tense silence behind. His jaw clenches, hands curling involuntarily at his sides, frustration and longing etched into every line of his body.

“Okay, guys, let’s go! Jean said he’s calling me in twenty! I need to shower!” Mikasa links her hands with yours eagerly, already pulling you toward the car, chatting animatedly about outfits, her bright energy washing over you.

In that moment, with her smiling and carefree—

(Your little finger entwines with hers in a heartfelt vow: "I promise, Mikasa.”)

It’s a Saturday night, and the world feels tender and fleeting. You’re both a little gone; not sloppy, just warm and soft around the edges. Mikasa’s music drifts softly from her speaker, a vinyl crackle weaving through her lazy hums. You’re both sprawled across her bed, half in and half out of blankets, tangled and tipsy from the expensive wine she stole from her dad’s study. Your cheeks are warm, skin flushed, giggles spilling too easily.

(You're sitting on Mikasa’s bed on a peaceful spring evening, the soft glow of dusk casting gentle shadows around you. Still dressed in your school skirt, you hold the latest issue of GIRL TALK magazine open to a page about kissing, feeling a flutter of nerves and anticipation swirling inside you.)

There’s a bottle between you, legs tangled on the bed, nail polish scattered like confetti across the duvet. Your laugh is hushed, breathless, the kind you only get after the third drink and a memory you forgot you had. In that fleeting, perfect moment, the world stands still just for you, and everything feels infinitely sacred.

(“Do you really think Jean will try to kiss me at the cinema?” Mikasa lies on her back, wiggling her toes in your lap, her innocent face filled with curiosity and hope.

You absentmindedly chew on a peach ring, the sweet taste grounding you: “That’s what all boys do, right?”

Mikasa suddenly sits up, her eyes wide with anxiety. "What if he uses tongue? I don’t know how to do that," she whispers, her voice trembling with juvenile horror.)

You’re still sipping from the bottle when the door creaks open.

Your gaze lifts, and in that moment, your heart stutters sharply. It’s Eren. He’s leaning against the doorframe, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, a chain catching the warm light that bathes the hallway, chewing a piece of gum. His damp hair clings to his forehead, probably from a late-night rinse-off, hinting at exhaustion and intimacy all at once.

He’s half-shrouded in the hallway’s glow, a quiet, magnetic presence. His messy hair, the drawstring pants riding low, his shirtless figure— he carries that look, that amused, lazy smirk that feels almost insolent, as if he’s caught you completely off guard.

His eyes flick over every detail: the vinyl crackling softly in the background, Mikasa’s arm draped across your waist, your bare legs tangled in the covers.

(“It’ll be okay”, you reassure her, “He probably hasn’t done it either,” but your words can’t quite ease her worries.

She presses the magazine to her chest, voice whiny as she wails, “It has to be perfect, or he’ll never see me again!” Her eyes dart over the pages, searching desperately for guidance, overwhelmed by the countless steps she’s sure she’s bound to forget.

You lean over her shoulder, fascinated by her whirlwind of emotions, as you continue to suck the sugary sweetness off another peach ring, feeling the heat of her worries mingle with your own.)

“Well, well,” he drawls, voice low and scratchy. “Looks like the party’s moved upstairs.”

Mikasa groans and throws a pillow. “Get out, Eren. No boys allowed.”

“Didn’t know y’all were havin’ communion in here,” he teases, ducking the pillow and catching your gaze. “You alright there, sugar?”

You nod. Maybe too quickly.

His eyes flick to the bottle, and a slow, knowing smile spreads across his face. He picks it up with a deliberate motion, turning it idly in his hand, then lets out a low, mock-whistle filled with amusement and something darker beneath.

“You’ve got real nerve. This is Dad’s vintage ‘87.”

“Eren, please! Don’t tell him!”

He puts the bottle down and sighs, a subtle shift from amused to firm. “I won’t. But that’s enough. The party’s over for you two.”

“But we were gonna watch a movie!” Mikasa whines.

“I’m sure you were. Not tonight, though. I’ve let this go on long enough.”

You slip out of Mikasa’s bed under his watchful eye, placing a wet kiss on her cheek before shuffling out of her room.

(1. Keep your lips soft. Lips that are smooth, inviting, and subtly moist create the perfect canvas for an unforgettable kiss.)

He follows you to your room, with a heavy presence lingering behind you. You settle onto your bed, the plush comforter cocooning you, wrapping you in a comforting, almost sacred embrace. He steps inside, slow and deliberate. Shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. You let your gaze drag over him, unhurried. He notices. His mouth twitches, rolling his wad of gum around his cheek.

(2. Refresh your breath. You never want bad breath to be the obstacle standing between you and something truly special, whether it’s a simple peck or a passionate French kiss.)

You tug the blanket higher on your legs. “Mikasa’ll kill you if she catches you in here.”

“Guess I better make it quick, then,” he says, stepping close, way too close, before crouching beside the bed.

You can smell the soap on him. The quiet heat of him, still fresh from the shower. The way his mouth curves, so near, it looks dangerous.

(3. Lock eyes with your partner. Eyes can reveal everything: longing, vulnerability, and the unspoken promise of what’s to come.)

“I mean it,” you whisper, but your voice is softer than you want it to be.

“I know.” He looks at you for a long second, unreadable.

There’s a pause. The night is thick around you, buzzing with leftover electricity.

(4. Break the barrier by touching them, gently and confidently.)

“I’ve been thinkin’ about you,” he says, like it’s not a confession at all, just a fact. He brushes his hand along your chin, tilting your face up towards him.

You swallow, your head pounding. “That isn’t a good idea.”

He tilts his head, eyes dark. “I know.”

Your mouth goes dry. “You’re Mika’s brother.”

“And you’re her best friend. I know.” He squats down, tugging your dress strap back up. The space between you narrows in increments, quiet ones. His fingers brush yours.His thigh presses faintly into yours.

He gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his eyes softening as he looks at you. “God, you’re so beautiful. All soft and honest like this.” His gaze lowers to your lips, and his eyes sharpen, predatory.

Deliberate.

(5. Seize the perfect moment. A meaningful kiss is the climax of growing tension and deepening intimacy. Wait for the right time when your hearts are racing, and make sure you’re both completely ready to surrender to that magical, all-consuming moment.)

He murmurs, “You know how much I want to kiss you right now? Just let me, baby.”

(“I’ll help you, Miks, don’t worry,” you whisper, your heart pounding. “We’ll practice together.”

She shuffles nervously closer, her giggles gentle and eager, as you kneel in front of her. Your noses brush, her soft fringe tickling your skin, igniting a stirring inside me. Your hands tremble slightly, clenched and unclenched in quiet anticipation.)

Your stomach churns, ready to run away and pretend this was all a dream.

“No— You can’t—” you hiccup, shaking your head.

“Shh, shhh. It’s alright, baby. It’s written all over your face. Don’t pretend it ain’t.” He lifts a hand, his thumb stroking your bottom lip. “Just let it happen. It’s what we’re meant to do tonight.”

(“Are you ready?” you murmur, your voice barely more than a breath, trembling with emotion. She nods, her eyes shining with innocence and courage.)

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your eyes are wide, your breath a shallow hitch in your throat, and you can only stare at the dark want in his. The quiet in the room is deafening.

He takes that for his answer.

He leans in, slowly, until his lips press against yours. It’s not the gentle, questioning kiss you might have imagined. It’s demanding, confident, and tastes faintly of cheap beer and cigarettes.

(And then, your lips meet hers: clumsy, hesitant, yet determined.)

He takes your silence as an invitation, his hand moving from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. You feel a jolt of electricity, a fire that you’ve been trying to smother all summer, and in your panic, your hands come up, not to push him away, but to clutch at his shirt.

(Her lips are small, moist, trembling with a mixture of excitement and uncertainty, pressed too tightly and moving too swiftly. Her tongue sucks the sugar off your lips, and in that moment, you part your own, inviting her to continue.)

He pulls away as your eyes flutter open, and you feel a wave of shame so powerful it makes you want to crawl out of your own skin. The sick feeling from before returns, but this time, it’s tangled with a confusing, terrifying kind of relief.

He sees the tears welling in your eyes. Instead of backing away, he pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist. He buries his face in your hair, his voice a low, comforting murmur that's laced with a dark possessiveness.

“Shh, shh,” he whispers, as if consoling you. “It’s our little secret, baby. Just ours.” He pulls back to look at you, and the smirk returns, cold and triumphant.

He presses a tender kiss to your temple, before standing and leaving you alone to drown in a storm of guilt and burning desire, helpless in the echo of his touch.

“Sleep tight, city girl,” he says, looking over his shoulder with a crooked grin. “Try not to dream about me.”

A week or two melted away like ice in the sun, and suddenly it’s the Fourth of July. The sky is bruised with sunset, the kind that spills gold and peach through the trees. The yard smells like smoke and cut grass, someone is telling loud stories over the music, and the air is heavy with summer. You’re standing on the porch, leaning against the railing, nursing the last of a drink gone syrupy with melted ice. You stand on the porch, the light breeze tussling your hair and your little red dress. You fiddle with the lace ribbon on your boots. Your thighs stick together, a subtle burn, while the faint taste of peach schnapps lingers on your lips. Laughter drifts from the yard, but your eyes are fixed somewhere far off, soft and lazy like a cat in the sun.

Then—

“You runnin’ away from me?” His voice, tender and low, is like molasses pouring slowly, wrapping around your heart.

You don’t answer right away. Your whole body stills in the porch light. Late evening, warm and sticky, and the ice in your glass rattles as you set it down too fast. He's always there, right when you don’t need him to be.

(Out by the truck, grease on his fingers and sweat shining at the nape of his neck, back muscles shifting under worn denim as he leans under the hood. Or striding down the hall fresh from a shower, towel slung low on his hips, steam still clinging to his skin.

At dinner, it’s worse. His leg brushes yours beneath the table, once, twice, like it’s an accident. Like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Drapes his arm over the back of your chair, fingers playing with the ends of your hair as he drawls, Pass the salad, sweetheart.

Sometimes he trips you as you pass him, just to see you stumble. Sometimes his hand finds the back of your neck, fingers brushing just so, til your breath catches and your thoughts scatter. Sometimes he pulls your hair gentle as he walks by, like it’s not driving you clean out of your mind.)

You stiffen, just slightly, but don’t turn. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He chuckles. “Thought I saw a ghost just now,” Eren says, voice low and warm behind you. “Slippin’ off like that.”

“I just needed air,” you say quietly.

“Ain’t rude to want some air.” His footsteps are slow, deliberate. You hear the shuffle of his boots on the porch, feel the heat of him as he closes the distance. “But it’s a bit impolite, leavin’ the party without sayin’ hi.”

He cages you in on the porch, arms planted either side of you on the railing. Not pressing, just blocking. Gentle. But immovable. His thighs press against the backs of yours, the rough denim of his Levi’s hot against the ripe flesh of your thighs below the hem of your dress.

His voice drops, honey-thick and hoarse. “You've been hidin’ from me all week, sugar. Am I that bad at kissin’?”

You don’t turn. You just swallow and say, soft, “Eren… I didn’t want that.”

He huffs, low and disbelieving, almost fond. “Really?” He spins you around, gently, like you’re a stray cat. Like you need it. “You always were a terrible liar.”

“I’m not—”

He cuts you off with a quiet, “Yeah, you are. Still got that little crease between your brows when you’re nervous.”

You narrow your eyes, but he’s already brushing his fingers over that exact spot.

“Don’t lie to me, sweetheart,” he says. “You always did blush easy.”

You’re not sure if it’s the night or the woods or the warmth in his voice, but suddenly your breath’s a little shorter. You’re inches apart, and the woods feel hotter than the Fourth of July sun. You can smell him now, bonfire smoke, something green and clean, the faintest trace of cologne clinging to his skin.

One hand ghosts up your arm, slow and easy, before it tips your chin, coaxing your face toward his. His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, flicking between yours. Studying. Unraveling.

This is your problem. You keep lookin’ at me like that, he murmurs, voice rough, then runnin’ the other way soon as I notice.

“Like what?” you breathe, barely more than a whisper. You blinked slow, eyes round and sugar-sweet.

His mouth quirks, slow and mean. “Like you're wonderin’ just how bad an idea I really am.”

Your breath hitches. He’s not touching you now, not really, but the air between you is molten. You try to shake your head, but his grip tightens, not cruel, just commanding. Like he’s holding you still, not out of anger, but because he owns the moment.

“Don’t go pretendin’, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Don’t act like you ain’t been starin’ at my mouth every time I speak. Like you ain’t been waitin’ for me to catch you slippin’.”

His voice roughens, his knuckles turning white as he drops his hand to grip the railing—

God, I saw you at the dinner table last night. I saw the way you squirmed when I said your name. How you couldn’t stop watchin’ me.

—wood splintering beneath his fingers.

You left a fucking wet spot on your chair, sweetheart.

Oh my God–

And now you got the gall to stand there with that Sunday-school face and lie to me? He leans in, lips brushing your cheek, not quite a kiss. His next words graze your skin. Truth is… I been patient. But I’m gettin’ real tired of pretendin’ we don’t want the same thing.

“Eren—”

“Say the word,” he says, pulling back just enough to see your eyes. His gaze is molten, unwavering. “Say ‘no,’ and I’ll leave you be. Cross my heart, sugar. I’ll walk away and never look back. If that’s what you want.”

You don’t answer. Not yet. Your pulse is stuttering, breath shallow.

He leans in one last time, voice like smoke and fire. The silence buzzed between you, electric and thick.

You blink, throat working around the lump rising there.

“Eren,” you whisper. “Don’t.”

You don’t pull away, not yet, but the words hang heavy between you.

He exhales, long and slow. A flash of something passes through his eyes, disappointment, sure, but not anger. He nods once, jaw tight. “Yeah,” he says, voice gone hoarse. “Yeah, alright.”

He takes a step back, hands falling to his sides. Doesn’t look at you when he says, “Guess I should’ve figured. You always were good at runnin’.”

You flinch. “That’s not fair—”

“I meant what I said,” he adds, rougher this time. “I won’t bother you again… if that’s what you want.”

He runs a hand through his hair, like he’s trying to clear the air, but the space between you feels thick as molasses now. Charged and aching.

And then he turns, walking back into the house with his shoulders stiff, every step slower than the last.

You’re still standing there when he slams the front door, your heart a mess of regret and want.

And for the first time all summer, you wish you had lied.

The sky’s gone velvet-black, cicadas still singing their feverish tune in the dark. The house is dark behind you. Quiet. You pad down the steps barefoot, heart stuck somewhere between your throat and your stomach. You sit at the edge of the pool at night, legs swinging gently in the water, sending little ripples across the surface. The blue light from beneath the pool dances up your skin, casting your face in a soft, ethereal glow, like moonlight trapped in water.

Your white nightgown clings in places where the damp air has kissed it, delicate straps slipping from your shoulders with each lazy kick. It’s short, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs, the fabric thin enough to glow faintly in the light, almost translucent. You look like something out of a dream, barefoot, quiet, and otherworldly, like the kind of trouble a boy only ever finds once and never forgets.

Knew you would be down here.

Your breath catches. You glance back over your shoulder, and there he is: half in shadow, sleeves rolled, cigarette burning low between two fingers, curls mussed like he ran a hand through them out of habit. The gold chain around his neck glints in the moonlight.

“How come?” you whisper.

“You wear your sex-like perfume,” he murmurs. “Soft. Heavy. Can smell it all the way out here.”

Your pulse stumbles. He sits next to you, right on the ledge. He smells like bonfire and salt, and he’s wearing a white tee damp at the collar and clinging to his chest. His hand brushes yours, barely, and the contact crackles through you like static. He doesn’t speak, smoke curling round his face. Just keeps staring at the pool. Like he’s trying to memorise the waves and ripples.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He flicks ash into the pool. “What for?”

“For what happened on the porch.”

Eren finally turns to you. His eyes are darker in the low light, full of something unreadable: You made yourself clear.

“That’s not what I meant—”

“It don’t matter what you meant, sweetheart. You said what you said.”

You go quiet. The pool water ripples gently around your toes. You twirl a strand of hair around your finger, idly, embarrassed, like a child caught in a lie.

He sighs after a moment, runs a hand down his face. “I’m not mad at you.”

You look at him. He won’t look back. Lord, what are you doing to him? You look up at him like he hung the stars, moonlight spilling softly over your face. He couldn’t stay mad at you even if he tried.

God help him, he’s gone—

“I just— I thought maybe you’d grown up a little bit. Learned to stop running from me.”

Your chest aches. “I did.”

That gets him. He blinks, slowly. Then, finally, turns to you.

—neck-deep and drownin’ in you, and you don’t even know it.

For a long beat, nothing moves but the water.

“Then why’d you push me away?”

You search for the words, throat tight. “I don’t wanna mess things up,” you admit, blinking slow. “With Mikasa. With— everything.”

Eren stares at you like he’s seeing something brand new. Something delicate.

He stubs the cigarette down on the concrete. Then, slow and unhurried, he stands up. He strips off his shirt, lets it fall in a crumpled heap on the deck. His belt clicks open. Jeans slide down his legs. You try not to stare, but God, you do. Every scar and tattoo lit by the blue glow of the pool, every inch of him so familiar and new all at once. You cross your ankles real ladylike, even while your eyes were misbehaving.

He sinks into the water like it’s a memory, treading water half-submerged, arms resting along the rim. Then he holds out a hand.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Let me pretend this ain’t wrong for a little while.”

You hesitate, hiccup, and he must see it in the tilt of your chin, the way your fingers fidget with the hem of your nightgown. His smirk softens into something gentler.

“I didn’t bring my swimsuit.”

“Don’t matter. I won’t look.” You know he’s lying.

You step down into the pool, quiet as a secret, your nightgown clinging to your silhouette like a second skin. The swell of your hips sways as you wade into the pool, the water rippling gently, folding around you like it’s been waiting.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

He pulls you gently to stand beside him, the warm water lapping at your waists. For a moment, he just watches you, eyes tracing your face like he’s trying to memorise it, like he’s not sure how long he’ll be allowed to keep looking.

Then slowly, deliberately, he raises a hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers trail down, jaw, neck, collarbone, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he presses too hard. He watches you, eyes dark beneath the moon, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a grin. You looked up from under your lashes, all wide-eyed want, not a clue what that look did to him. His hand brushes your cheek.

I ain’t gonna break you, he murmurs, voice low and thick. Ain’t gonna make you regret me.

You shake your head. “I know.”

“Then why’re you still shakin’?”

You whisper, “Because you’re touching me.”

He leans in, chuckling, until your noses are almost brushing. There’s a pause. Then he murmurs: “I ain’t a good man, sweetheart. But I’d be good to you. You believe that?”

“I want to.” Your hands grip his shoulders.

“Good. You gonna let me kiss you this time?” he murmurs, gaze heavy-lidded and soft. “Or you gonna run again?”

Your heart flutters against your ribs.

You whisper, “I’m not going anywhere.”

His lips twitch, that lazy grin returning like muscle memory. And then, slow as the summer wind, he does. His lips are on you before you even register it, slow and searching, tasting like beer and summer heat. One hand slips to your thigh, thumb stroking circles into bare skin. Your fingers curl into the flesh of his biceps.

You should stop. You should run.

But instead, you kiss him like you’ve been waiting all year.

Your arms wrap around his neck, and his lips press into yours, hot and wet, as you lace your hands into his hair. His hand trails from your cheek to your throat, squeezing gently, coaxing a small moan from you. Skimming his thumb over your pulse, his tongue slips into your mouth. Sucking on it gently, your hands tug at the hair interlocked between your fingers, and Eren releases a loud groan into your mouth.

“C’mere,” he mumbles against you. His hands slip under your thighs, and you wrap your legs around his waist. You shudder when you feel him beneath you, large and thick and impossibly hard. You roll your hips against the tent in his pants experimentally, and it pulls a moan from both of you.

He pulls away, his lips slick and swollen, still connected to yours by limp strings of saliva, to rasp, “Fuck, you’re trouble, you know that?” he says, rougher now.

Your nightgown plasters itself to your body, highlighting the swell of your breasts, and the stiff peaks of your nipples. Nothing other than reverence abides in his eyes as he surveys you, your heaving chest, your flush from your neck to your ears, and your lips are a dark, kiss-bitten red. An angel.

My angel, Eren thinks.

Eren’s hands slide up to cup your ass, squeezing, groping.

You gasp, before whispering. “What now?”

Eren huffs a laugh, quiet, like he’s been expecting the question.

“What do you want now, sweetheart?” he murmurs, stubble brushing the swell of your cheek. “You tell me.”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “It felt easier before you kissed me.”

He smiles at that, crooked and boyish. “Didn’t look easy. You’ve been lookin’ at me like I was your last cigarette for a week now.”

You nudge him gently in the chest, but you don’t move away. “I’m serious, Eren. This... changes things.”

He sobers a little, eyes darker now. Still searching your face.

“I know it does. You think I don’t?” He sighs, voice quieter. “Been tryin’ not to cross that line. Been good, haven’t I?”

“Mostly,” you whisper.

“But, can I be honest with you, sweetheart?” he growls, eyes tracing you like a prayer. “ I stopped listenin’ to the angel on my shoulder the second you lay out on that sunbed like a goddamn poster girl.”

He nips at your neck, and you whimper. A soft, wanton sound.

“So maybe stop worryin’ about tomorrow for a second,” he says, his voice dipping lower again, slow and Southern. “And tell me what you want right now.”

Your fingers twist into the wet hair at the nape of his neck. You tilt your head, pressing your lips to his jaw this time, softer.

“…You.”

He grins like you just told him a secret. “Then that’s what now, baby.”

He dips his head to capture your lips again. His cock is already twitching beneath you, pulsing against your stomach. It’s so hard against your pussy, so big— the desire between you is raw, intense, and it makes you whimper. He runs his tongue along your bottom lip, sinking his teeth into it.

Your nails dig into his scalp as you moan into his mouth, and he immediately surges up, pulling you two out of the pool. You gasp as the cold night air washes over you, but it's not long before he gently presses you back, your spine meeting the warm stone beside the water. Your hair fans out like a halo, catching moonlight like threads of silver. You’re still panting, eyes glossy, breath catching.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, slow and quiet, “ain’t you somethin’ outta a dream.”

You glance down at yourself, suddenly shy, though he’s not wrong. Your dress was plastered to you, a little shorter than you meant, a little softer, lower at the neckline. Your dress strap slips down, lazy and deliberate, like it knows it’s being watched. You're not even wearing a bra, your breasts heaving with every exhale of his name. And your nipples have pebbled in the midsummer’s night chill. His eyes, from his overhead view, notice everything. You shiver, not from the bite of the air, but the ravenous gaze of Eren.

“You cold, baby?” he murmurs, warm hands running up and down your sides.

You nod; the intensity in his eyes knocks the air from your lungs.

He gives the flesh of your thigh a soft squeeze. His touch burns; his hands linger long enough to claim one spot before travelling up to the next.

Higher, higher, higher, until he’s playing with the lower hem of your dress, and you’re knotting your fingers into his hair. It’s soft to the touch, giving you something to pull on. His hand stalls on your upper thigh, his thumb lazily rubbing near its apex as he kisses down your jaw, and then down your neck.

A chill rolls down your spine.

Your gasp devolves into a shudder as he licks up your throat, tongue hot and lazy. He leans in a little more, and you feel it: he warmth of him, the weight of his attention. Need me to warm you up, baby?

“Please,” you whisper, his stubble scraping your throat. The sensation leaves goosebumps on your neck, on your thighs; and your back is arching off the stone, and your legs are spreading around him. You’re gasping, Eren—

“Yeah, baby?” he mumbled against your pulse.

“I need it. I need it so bad.”

Is that right? What do you need? He peels down the hemline of your dress and leaves quick, fleeting kisses to your chest. His fingers gently cup your breasts, making you squirm and whine beneath him. He grunts in response, pressing his hips further to yours: Stay still.

His hands run down your hips, the heat of his palms bleeding through your dress; they’re warm through the fabric, and they’re hot when they skim over the bottom hem to explore the bare skin of your thighs. Long fingers graze over your flesh, unhurried, attentive to every inch of unclothed skin. His thumb brushes the crotch of your underwear, translucent and plastered to your wet, dripping cunt. Your hips buck to meet his touch halfway, desperate.

He chuckles. Need me to touch you, hm? Want me to work this pretty little pussy?

Where did he learn to talk like that? God, just his voice is getting you geared up, and you're glad for getting into the pool, because if not, he would be able to see the arousal smeared between your thighs and across your stomach.

“Yes, yes, please. Please, Eren—”

His voice, so low and quiet, barely registers. “I know, baby. I'm gonna give it to you.”

You’re focused on his hands as they slip under the hem of your dress to lift it slowly. You’re focused on the throbbing in your stomach when he bunches the fabric up around your waist and puts his hands on your bare skin. You grasp his shoulders, digging your nails into his shoulder blades.

At the same time, he takes your dress off of you, groaning: “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

He tosses the fabric, leaving it to disappear somewhere into the hazy air. His tongue darts out to wet his lips.

Legs spread wide around him, beneath him in just your panties— even in the chill of the night, his touch keeps you burning warm. You’re too aroused to feel embarrassed— you can feel the immediate response in his cock, the length of it twitching against you. He’s so starstruck you can almost see little hearts swimming in his eyes.

“You’re so perfect,” he says coarsely.

His hands are rough, calloused from years of hard work, but his touch is soft. It’s warm, and your skin is so sensitive that when his rough fingers sweep down your abdomen, your breaths catch in your throat. And when his big hand cups your mound, you squirm on the stone, whining.

Shut that shit up, sweetheart. No more whining, he grunts, giving your pussy a gentle squeeze. You want Mikasa to hear you?

That sobers you up, immediately tucking your lip under your teeth. Eren chuckles, squishing your cheeks together in his free hand.

Mm, that’s better, sweetheart. What do you say?

“Sorry,” you mumble, your lips puckered into a pout. He leans down, placing a wet kiss on your lips.

“Good girl,” He’s trailing off now, his mouth leaving yours. He’s moving, slathering sloppy kisses down your jaw, down your throat. Gotta be patient, sweetness.

He’s level with your bare chest now. Eren immediately takes your left nipple into his hot, wet mouth and your back arches. You keen as he rolls the other nipple in his fingers. He releases your nipple from his mouth with a wet pop and places slow, open-mouthed kisses in the valley between your breasts. His large, calloused hands fondle your breasts languidly, his cock twitching in his briefs. Moaning softly, you roll your hips against him, desperate for friction, whimpering.

He’s kissing, licking, sucking your skin, making it tingle when he draws blood to the surface. He presses a hand on your stomach to steady you, his fingers splaying over your skin. He hooks his fingers over the damp fabric covering your pussy, pulls your panties to the side, slow. His fingers finally come into contact with your core, and a strained whimper rips out of you at his fleeting touch. He ghosts over your clit, sucking in a sharp breath. Just as you’re about to whine again, he starts applying pressure to your swollen nub, just enough to make your head spin, as he chuckles.

It’s good, so, so good. He gets you wet with the lightest touch, has you pleading his name, so needy for him that you can’t help but lean up and pull him into a sloppy kiss. But that’s not enough, not nearly. Even when your tongues are knotted together, and his cock is straining harder against you, you’re dying for more.

I know, he says, between sloppy kisses. I know. He dips a finger between your folds, running it along your slit, before pulling it back. He’s licking his finger, cleaning your wetness off of it. He brings his hand back between your thighs and murmurs: Are you ready, sweetheart?

As soon as he applies a little pressure, you gasp quietly as he begins thrusting his finger in and out of you. The stretch is delicious, something your fingers could never achieve. You can hear the—

squelch squelch squelch

—echo around you two before he even adds another finger. You’re mildly aware that you’re dripping, down his wrist, between your legs, onto the stone, but your mind is too foggy with pleasure to feel an inkling of shame. You’ve never been this wet for anyone before, and your heart hammers wildly in your chest.

“You hear that, baby?” Eren teases you, “You’re so wet for me, aren’t you?”

Whimpering, you bury your head into the crook of his neck. With his mouth against your jaw, he sinks another finger into you, slow and easy, then it’s all the way inside, and you’re shuddering, clenching around him. His fingers are long and thick, nestling against that gummy spot that makes your knees weak.

Right there, Eren, don't stop, you’re keening, bucking your hips to meet his fingers halfway.

“Right there, baby?” His fingers press deeper, curling into a spot that feels good.

You gasp, swallowing your monas like a wad of honey. Yeah—

He sticks to that spot, making your thighs shake, as he’s cooing the whole time Uh huh? That’s right? as you tell him how close you are to cumming for him, how long you’ve wanted this. You begin to rock your hips faster, encouraged by his coos, the flames in your gut beginning to spread. You pant into his ear wanton, your breasts bouncing with your every move.

Your head falls back onto the ground, holding his gaze, as he grinds your clit against the heel of his palm. Your eyes cross as your legs lock around his waist. Moans are tumbling out of you unrestrained now, your voice high, whiny and loud. You are on the brink of orgasm, painstakingly close, and as Eren curls his fingers again, you lose it.

Your vision blurs, and your legs shake as the world stutters on its axis. You spasm and clench around Eren’s hand, dripping onto the gravel below you. Pleasure washes over you in waves, each one less intense than the last. His fingers are relentless, never faltering, coaxing every drop of cum out of you. You slump with the last. Catching your breath against his chest, feeling its slow and steady rise and fall. Hearing, in the thick of it, the low hum of his voice, reassurances murmured to ease you down, you close your eyes. His pace has slowed to a languid pump, fingers massaging your inner walls.

Eren looks at the mess you’ve made of his hand, retracts his fingers gently, letting out a low fuuuuck, before asking if, you’re okay?

You hum in response, barely registering Eren’s question. Eren tugs your hair again, lighter this time, and you look up at him, eyes wide and glazed over.

“Cmon, sweetheart. Look at me. Was it okay?” he asks softly, that same way he asked when you would scrape your knee chasing a butterfly. “Was it too much?”

You shake your head, whispering. “No, it was perfect.”

“Good.”

Tilting your face gently upward, he places a light kiss on your hairline, and then another on your lips. As soon as his mouth leaves yours, his thumb takes its place, grazing slowly over your bottom lip. You let out a soft little sigh, your lashes fluttering low like they’re heavy with honey.

Limbs loose and languid, body warm and worn from the weight of him.

He’s already wrung you dry, not just your body, but every damn nerve in you, plucked and played like the strings on a fiddle. You let out a small sigh, eyes fluttering closed. Your limbs feel like molasses, slow and sweet, worn down to the bone.

Eren leans over you, propped on one elbow, damp curls curling at his temples, his bare chest still glistening faintly in the moonlight. All golden skin and sweat-slick muscle, watching you with that lazy, satisfied smirk. He watches you for a long, quiet second, his breath low and steady.

“Tired, baby?” he murmurs, voice like honey and heat. “Reckon it’s time for bed, ain’t it?”

“No,” you mumble, throat still thick, words slow like your brain’s still stuck in that haze. “No, I’m ready. I want more. I want—”

Your eyes flick down, lingering a beat too long at his crotch. The air between you thickens like the August night. Ripe, humid, heavy.

He sees it. Lord, he sees it, and his grin turns wolfish.

“Well, now,” he drawls, chuckling low in his chest, “You sure ‘bout that, sweetheart? ‘Cause you’re lookin’ awful tuckered out already.”

You shake your head, but it’s weak. Your hand comes up to brush his collarbone, tracing a slow path down his chest. “No,” you whisper, breath hitching. Your voice drops lower. “I want you to fuck me.”

He huffs a soft laugh, low in his throat, like you just told him the sweetest joke. You kiss your mother with that mouth, sweetheart?

He drawls, eyes twinkling with something wicked. “You’re real brave all of a sudden, huh?” He leans down, nose brushing your jaw. “Could barely catch your breath a minute ago, and now you’re tryin’ to play grown.”

“I can take it,” you whisper. “I swear I can.”

“Mmm.” He leans back just a little, and his hand slides down to yours, warm, calloused fingers wrapping around yours. Then he brings it to his crotch, presses it slow and deliberate against his jeans, right below his buckle.

You freeze.

Because there it is: heavy, solid, unmistakable. Not a metaphor. Not a tease. He’s big. Huge, even. You felt it earlier, but now that feeling is throbbing under your palm, you’re truly grasping the size of it.

How will it fit? You think, with your heart in your throat.

Your breath catches. He watches you closely, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that’s almost fond. Your pulse flutters like a moth in your throat.

“Now, listen to me,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You been real good for me. But tonight?” He slides off you slow, the loss of his weight making you ache. “Tonight, you’re done.”

“Eren—”

“No.” There’s no shame in his tone. Just that same steady patience, the kind you only learn from fixing engines and waiting out storms. “You need rest, sugar. That brain of yours’ all fogged up. When you’re ready, I’ll give it to you proper. But not when you’re half outta your head and barely able to speak.”

“I can take it,” you whisper again, desperate now.

Eren crouches beside you, cups your cheek, eyes molten and kind. “I know you think you can. But I told you I’d be good to you, didn’t I? That means knowin’ when to stop.”

You bite your lip, tears stinging behind your eyes, frustration or tenderness, you can’t tell.

He murmurs, voice like smoke. “You trust me?”

You nod, dumbly, almost shy now. But his thumb rubs gentle over the back of your hand, grounding you.

He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, whispering like he’s telling you a secret, “Then trust me on this, too. You ain’t ready. Not tonight.”

He carries you into the house, up the stairs, down the hallway, bare feet soft against the floorboards, your damp hair clinging to you, and his shirt slipping off one shoulder.

In your bedroom, he lays you down gentle, like something breakable, and kisses your cheeks, your eyelids, your lips, feather-light.

“Sleep tight, city girl,” he murmurs, pulling the covers over your hips.

And then he’s gone, door clicking shut behind him.

You lie there, drenched in pool water and his scent, every inch of you still thrumming. The sheets cling to your bare thighs, his shirt hanging off your body like a secret.

Mind racing. Heart aching.

The next morning, you pad into the bathroom with a yawn, rubbing your eyes, the hem of your sleep shirt brushing your thighs. The tile’s cool under your bare feet, and the morning sun spills in sideways through the slatted blinds, soft and golden. You’re half-asleep, toothbrush in hand, already going through the motions. It's early morning, the mockingjays are singing outside, and Mikasa is still sleeping. You barely got a wink of sleep last night, too consumed by the memory of Eren and his hands on you. Then the door creaks open behind you.

You don’t turn.

You don’t have to.

The air shifts behind you, warmer, charged. You catch the faint creak of the floorboards, the smell of sun and soap and whatever cologne he’d smudged on yesterday that still clings to your pillow. Your toothbrush stills in your mouth. He doesn’t say a word at first. Just steps inside, slow as molasses, like he owns the place. Like he owns you.

You blink at your own reflection, hair a mess, sleep shirt slipping off one shoulder, mouth full of mint foam. You must look ridiculous. But behind the fuzz of embarrassment, there’s a thrum in your chest. A heat low in your belly that never really cooled from last night. You spit into the sink. Rinse. Gulp down a breath, still refusing to meet his eyes in the mirror.

Then you feel it.

The soft, solid press of him at your back, broad and warm, skin still damp from the shower, or maybe he’s just been sweating from the heat already. He leans down, his bare chest brushing your shoulder blades, his mouth a breath away from your ear.

“Morning, sugar,” he murmurs, voice thick and lazy with sleep. “You sleep alright?”

You shake your head, cheeks burning. “Not really.”

“Mm.” His hands find your hips, thumbs stroking just under the hem of your shirt. “Still sore?”

Your breath hitches. You nod once.

“Aw, poor baby,” he coos, mock-pitying, dropping a kiss to the curve of your jaw. “Guess I wore you out, huh?”

“Eren…” you whisper, eyes fluttering shut. The weight of him behind you is dizzying, anchoring and dangerous all at once. His fingers trace the hem of your shirt, lifting, teasing, and your body leans into him like it’s got a mind of its own.

He huffs a soft laugh against your neck, lips grazing skin. “Shouldn’t be doin’ this,” he murmurs, but makes no move to pull away.

“You already are,” you breathe, barely audible.

That does it.

He chuckles low, wicked, like he just won something, and kicks the bathroom door shut with the heel of his foot, the sharp click of it echoing in the small room. He crowds you against the sink, one hand dragging up your thigh, the other curling around your jaw to tilt your head toward him.

“You— she’s gonna hear us,” you whisper, breath hitching, your voice barely a hush beneath the creak of the old house settling.

Eren leans in close, lips ghosting the shell of your ear. Not if you’re quiet, he murmurs, voice like warm honey, slow and sinful. His breath fans across your skin, making you shiver. Think you can do that for me, baby? Or do I need to give you somethin’ to suck on to keep that sweet little mouth of yours busy?

You blink up at him, heart racing behind your ribs. “You’d let me?” Your voice goes soft, eyes dropping with a smile playing at your lips.

That earns a dark chuckle from deep in his throat. “Course I will, sweetheart. Gotta return the favour, don’t ya?”

He doesn’t give you time to fire back with something smart. Just spins you around like he’s done it a thousand times before, strong hands at your waist, and presses a kiss to your lips— hot and messy, tasting like spearmint and sin. His tongue slides against yours, slow and teasing, and when you gasp, he grins into your mouth like he’s already won.

Your hands trail down, fingers ghosting along the edge of his waistband, playful. You find his cock, heavy, warm, thick beneath the cotton, and your fingers pause there.

“S’big,” you breathe, eyes wide, lips parted. “So big.”

“I know, baby,” he says, brushing his knuckles along your cheek like you’re made of glass. There’s pride in his drawl, heat in his grin. “But you’re gonna swallow it all, ain’t ya?”

His hand slides into your hair, slow and possessive, curling at the nape of your neck.

“You want it?” he asks, voice low, dangerous and sweet like a storm rolling in.

You nod, lips parted.

He tugs gently, guiding you down.

Then you’re on your knees on that cool tile floor, the morning light streaking in through the blinds, striping his bare chest with gold. Outside, mockingjays keep singing, and the house is still. Still enough that you know you’ve only got a few minutes before someone notices you’re both gone.

He strokes your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “Atta girl,” he murmurs, voice thick with something tender and wicked all at once. “Now open real wide for me.”

Your lips part on instinct, slow, soft, still swollen from sleep. You’re blinking up at him, lashes fluttering, your breath feather-light in the quiet hush of the morning. He hooks a finger into your mouth, rough pad dragging against your tongue, and before you can even brace for it—

He spits, slow and deliberate, straight into your mouth.

It’s filthy. Real country-boy nasty. Like he doesn’t care one bit who might be just down the hall. Like he owns this moment, and you, too.

Your eyes flutter, lashes trembling, and a soft gasp slips out around his finger, not from shock, but from the way your whole body clenches at once, like he’s lit a match and dropped it into your stomach. You taste him, bitter and hot and wrong in all the ways that make it feel so right.

He laughs, low and mean, and grabs your cheeks in one broad, calloused hand, squeezing your mouth into a pout. “Swallow it, sweetheart.”

You do. Without hesitation.

His eyes gleam, wicked and wolfish as his thumb strokes the edge of your jaw. Good girl, he drawls. Didn’t even have to ask you twice.

Then he reaches into the band of his sweatpants and pulls it out, slow, almost reverent, his cock. It’s thick and curved and veiny, the skin hot and flushed from being so close to his body. He hisses softly as the cool air hits it, his knuckles going white around the base. Precum dribbled steadily from the tip, trickling down his shaft in translucent streams. Long, and girthy, the head flushed to an angry red. A bulging vein runs down the underside of his cock, straight to where his balls sit, heavy and warm.

“Lord,” he mutters with a lazy smirk, “been waitin’ to feed this to you all morning.”

You stare. Your mouth waters. He gives it a lazy pump, once, twice, just enough to make you squirm, before pressing it gently to your cheek. Gripping his cock at the base, he smacks the bulbous head against your cheek twice. His precum dribbles across your cheek. The weight of it drags down your jaw, your skin prickling with heat.

He whistles. Low and long.

“You look scared, sugar,” he teases, voice all mock concern. “What’s the matter? Never sucked cock before?”

Your fingers curl against your thighs, legs tucked beneath you on the tile. “Not one like that,” you whisper, dazed.

“Then you’re in for a real treat.” You swallow hard, heart pounding, and he raises a brow, grin stretching wide and wicked. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs, tapping the tip against your lips now, coaxing. “I’ll tell you what to do.”

You suck in a deep breath before gently gripping it at the base. Eren hisses, his teeth grinding together.

“Tighter, sweetheart.” His voice, so deep, hits you like a wave, until you're temporarily lost in the unfamiliarity of it. Heat rushes to your cheeks, your stomach clenching as you tighten your grip. “Yeah, that's it. Good girl.”

You then press a small, intimate kiss to the tip, like a dream stitched from the deepest corners of your heart, and it earns a rumbling moan from Eren. You tenderly wrap your lips around his trembling, leaking head, your tongue gently swirling in a slow, lovesick dance. His precum moistens your tongue, mingling with your minty toothpaste.

That’s good, baby, so good. Go on, open up, sweetheart. Keep your teeth outta the way. He gently, yet urgently, brushes the hair from your face with both hands, holding it back and away from your face so he doesn’t miss a thing as you start to lower your mouth down onto his cock.

“Holy shit,” he grunts, sighing in pleasure as he watches you swirl your tongue around his swollen head. He bites down on his lower lip as you slide your wet, flat tongue against his entire length, your gaze fixed on his the entire time. He threads his fingers through your hair, a desperate, primal moan spilling from deep within his chest.

You swallow his length slowly, inch by inch. You open your mouth a little wider and let the head of his cock slide against your tongue. You wrap your lips around him, gently bobbing up and down across the ridge of his dick as your hand pumps lazily against his length. Drool slides down from the side of your mouth, lubricating your hand and allowing you to slide faster and grip him tighter.

About halfway down, you gag, and pull back, thick rivulets of spit connecting you and his cock. You look so beautiful and fucked out on your knees for him like this, face flushed, and eyelashes lined with tears. He grunts, his fingers tightening fiercely in your hair: Easy now, where you goin’, sweetheart?

Your chest heaves, and your eyes water. His eyes are dark and wild, consumed by an intense, almost desperate desire.

“Come back here and spit on it,” he growls, yanking your head forward. A searing heat pulses through your core in response to his touch, and a trembling, pitiful whimper escapes your lips. You let a glob of spit fall onto the pulsing length of his dick.

That's it, baby, get it wet. He pulls your mouth back onto his cock, and you bob your head in time with his hand in your hair. You pump him with both hands, twisting them in sync with your gargles. Eren’s grip on your hair tightens as you start to take more of him into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he groans, watching you blink back tears as you take him deeper and deeper. “That’s it, take it— just like that, baby— fuck.”

Spit drips down your chin as you suck his cock, slow and messy. He lifts the hem of his shirt, and in that moment, your hands instinctively splay against his hot, bare skin, feeling the rapid tremors of his muscles beneath your fingertips, each flex, each ripple igniting a rush of electricity through your veins. The bathroom is thick with loud, visceral noises—

gargling, swallowing

—raw, urgent sounds that echo in the tight space between you. Bubbles surge, then burst in the corners of your mouth. Your throat clenches almost painfully around him as you swallow, and Eren's vision goes blurry, almost missing the way you nuzzle your nose against the dark curls around the base of his cock.

God, sweetheart, you’re deeper than a drain pipe, he hisses through clenched teeth. He holds you there, spit running down your chin and your chest. He looks down at you, sees how beautiful you look, so messy, with sunlight smattering your hair. He keeps you there, with spit sliding down your chin and soaking your chest, as if every ounce of chaos in you has become his obsession. His gaze falls upon you, and in that moment, he sees a beauty raw and unguarded, so imperfect, so real, with your hair shimmering with sunlight.

And that's when it all shatters, and something inside him snaps.

Eren's low growl escapes, primal and urgent, like an animal driven to the edge. Without hesitation, he pushes forward. His hands clutch your tangled hair as he takes a few determined steps, until your head is pressed firmly against the bathroom cabinet, trapped and helpless.

He begins to thrust his cock into your mouth relentlessly, loud, wet sounds filling the bathroom: Stay still, and take it. Fuck, that's it, that's it, baby.

You're completely at his mercy, quietly surrendering as he dominates you, letting him facefuck you like a doll. Your hands hanging limp by your sides, his hips piston relentlessly against your face as your eyes flutter shut, overwhelmed by the size and sheer force of him.

Your entire body blazes with an inferno, every nerve ignited by the sensation of being used. Your eyes lift to meet his, wide with longing, shimmering with tears and pure devotion. In that moment, all the world dissolves, until only the heat of your mouth remains. Hiking his foot onto the counter, Eren suddenly erupts in a guttural roar that echoes through the room.

Without hesitation, he pours a rush of cum down your throat, each drop scalding, thick, and intensely salty. His thighs tremble, his stomach caving in as he bends over you. His chest rises and falls rapidly, each breath ragged and frantic, as he calls out your name with a mixture of yearning and desperation that cuts straight to your core.

After the final spurt, he pulls his softening cock from your mouth, allowing you to gasp for air. His voice is rough, almost gone, when he speaks, Don't swallow yet. Show me, baby.

You stick your tongue out, your mouth lathered white, with his cum piled on your tongue, and dripping into your cleavage.

His cock twitches in his hand. “Swallow it. All of it,” he growls. You do. Obedient. Docile.

Pathetic.

He squats in front of you, gripping your chin, “Open, baby. Let me see.” You show him your empty mouth, proving that you swallowed all of his load.

“That's my girl,” he presses a kiss to your cheek. He gently wipes away the spit, tears and cum on your face. His eyes burn with a deep, heartfelt concern. “Sorry, sweeheart, I got a bit carried away. Was that okay? Did I go too far?”

You shake your head softly, your lips trembling as you lick them, a gentle, breathless sigh escaping. “No, it was good,” you say, your voice raw with honest emotion. Slowly, you lean in, nestling your face against his palm, your eyes searching his with unspoken longing. The words spill from your lips, filled with sincerity: “I liked it.”

He scrubs a hand over his face, letting out a breathless chuckle. “Yeah? Didn't know you were such a slut, sweetheart.”

He pulls you upright, his calloused hands smoothing your pyjamas with tender care before tucking himself back in. His face is worn, exhausted, his hair clinging damply to his sweat-slicked temples, yet those emerald eyes shine with a deep, lingering ache and a silent hunger that speaks volumes.

“Better get goin’ ‘fore Mika wakes up, yeah? I'm gonna clean myself up a bit.” He squeezes your waist tenderly, as if trying to soothe the ache building inside you before it overwhelms.

“Okay. I’ll see you…?” You hold your breath, biting your lip to keep the longing from spilling over, chastising yourself for already missing him so fiercely. This was wrong, so painfully wrong, yet your heart refused to listen, aching with a truth you dared not admit: you couldn’t deny how deeply he affected you, how desperately you wanted to stay, no matter the cost.

He senses your upset, and smooths a hand over your spine, like a stray cat craving comfort. “Course you will, sweetheart. Not letting that throat go anywhere.” His lips press softly to your hair, a soothing, desperate touch before he grins, delivering a hard smack to your ass. A quiet, surprised gasp escapes you, and Eren’s chuckle rumbles in his chest, warm and teasing.

Just as you turn to walk away, he leans in close, his lips grazing your ear as he murmurs:

And next time, I'm puttin’ it on your face.

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