Work Text:
She felt his presence like a shadow; he was always there. They had never even talked. She was nothing like him, and he was nothing like her.
Historia wore her uniform like it was modeled on her body for sale, pleated skirt ironed to abysmal perfection, blouse buttoned up to the last hole, choking her, tie choking her twice over, riding tight into her throat—but if it didn’t, the collar of her shirt would ride up, and the tie wouldn’t align with the straight stitching. Lines not aligning bothered her.
Her honorary student pin not sitting straight bothered her, too. She would find herself adjusting it in class, in the bathroom, absentmindedly in the middle of every conversation, two fingers pinching the top of it, turning it straight. If she looked down and realized that it had been askew for too long, her day was ruined. For having only one clasp, and not even welded to the exact middle of the golden plating, she felt that the weight on that pin was not distributed evenly. It would always shift. She would always have to fix it.
There was never as much as a hair on her navy blue blazer. Every glimpse she got at her reflection, in mirrors, passing glass-paned cabinets and even in particularly lacquered wood, Historia wrung her skirt straight, pulled her blazer down, patting out every wrinkle with a flat palm, picking off dust-like lint before anyone could see. In class, she sacrificed comfort and sat on the outer side of her thigh to keep the pleating of her skirt as flat as it was ironed, which made her leg go numb. During break, she stood, abdomen sucked in and tensed, muscles burning calories in excess, because even posture had to be filigree. She never wore her bag slung over one shoulder for two days in a row—it was unthinkable to throw off the perfectly horizontal line of her collarbones. Her spine was like a pulled string.
Historia was thankful her hair was straight and fine; it was easy to pull back every morning and flatten small flyaways with two hands and a splash of water. Not too much water, though—it couldn’t look greasy. It had to look healthy. It needed to have shine and bounce, but not an overt amount; not pompous and ridiculous. Effortless. Perfect.
Image was of utmost importance to her. And when she looked at him, Historia thought they didn’t even belong in the same room. It couldn’t be that they breathe the same air, go to the same school, read the same books. Someone like her and someone like him.
In fact, if you asked her, she never even looked at him. She only caught him watching her, which was often—but she never looked at him, of course. She didn’t know that his name was Eren, she had no idea he wore a pale silver hoop in his left ear, and it would be impossible for her to admit that everything about him drove her absolutely crazy.
Historia knew, from the way her stomach would drop, when Eren was a few feet away. It was like a deeply spiritual presence had entered her vicinity, sucking the life out of it. He poisoned her air. Historia’s heart would abandon its post, alerting her stomach on the way, and her knees would grow weak, and hands would pull at the hem of her skirt to rein in the devastating effect he had on her. He was hard to miss, too; so much taller than she was, standing at a good six feet, legs long, slacks unevenly cuffed, shirt never tucked, tie always loose. The buttons of his collar had not met their sewn holes, not once.
But he was not messy, or a slob. Eren was effortless—when passing her in the hallway, he smelled intoxicating to her. Maybe it was that he carried an air of deliberate, rugged charm, like he knew exactly how much time Historia put into looking the way she did, and decided to spend the same amount of time achieving the opposite. Eren’s hair was a dark curtain that curled inwards just an inch shy below his jaw, tousled permanently—but even that worked in his favor. His skin was a dark caramel, cheeks always flushed in a deep, angry pink, arms supple through the cotton shirt when he moved his hand to turn a new page of the book he was reading, eyes never leaving hers.
She would look away. How weird that he always looked at her. She never looked at him.
Historia often wondered if anyone else felt him walk in the room. Maybe it was just her. She wouldn’t dare to ask, of course—she couldn’t be seen looking, thinking, dreaming of someone like him. She could never admit to following the lines of his body in the hallway, watching the muscles in his shoulders shift when he leaned down to talk to his friends, obsessing over the way his hair swung in front of his eyes, noticing a healthy string of dark hair trail down into his pants when he reached a higher shelf in the library, or how he carried his book of the week, two fingers tucked tight into it like a bookmark, when they should be inside her.
She never dreamed of him. There wasn’t a night she had woken up from an orgasm, thighs still quivering in the aftermath, heart racing to death, hair plastered against her face, strands of it flying up and down as she breathed through her mouth. Not once has she reached down in a bathroom stall and felt a warm, slimy arousal coat her fingers after just being in the same room as him. Never looked him in the eyes and felt blood rush down so fast and hard it hurt. Historia couldn’t imagine leaning over the table to scribble nonsense in her classmate’s notebook, and making sure that her skirt rode up just high enough to reveal the lace trim of her panties. It was unfathomable that she could cross her arms walking past him, pushing her breasts together so tight that the front button of her blouse fought for its life, pin askew, like standing upright never mattered.
No, none of that, ever.
October had come with muggy weather. The cobbled paths all shone wet, wintry dust rinsed away by another rainfall. Every lantern in the yard was lit, which threw down beams of light and illuminated every drop of water that fell endlessly from the sky.
Historia was stuck at the library; she knew it wouldn’t stop raining for hours, and she had all the time to kill that day. She wanted to kill it violently, macing it. She didn’t want to go home and stare at the ceiling, or pace around the room, or brush her hair in some empty vain, or fold ears into books she couldn’t focus on—she wanted to sit at the library, on one of those moss green velvet couches, and pretend to read there, because he was always there.
He never pretended to read. He was never studying, either. Historia knew Eren’s grades were too good for him to study. Raised around scholars, he possessed the kind of effortless intellect people fought tooth and nail for, and it disgusted her as much as it made her hunger blaze. It was so easy to want him that she hated it.
Oncologist, his father, feeding an impenetrable void of clientele. Mother in publishing, an old physicist’s agent, doing fantastic numbers for his numbing drivel. Historia knew Eren came from good money, because she was the same.
Arrogant at school, like he knew he was destined for success, regardless of the rules he bent or the disapproving glances he garnered. To Historia, it seemed that Eren was always testing the boundaries, pushing against the constraints that would bind any less privileged student.
But despite their shared privilege, Historia felt a gap between herself and Eren. She was conscientious, striving for perfection in her studies and demeanor, while Eren seemed to revel in non-conformity. She admired his confidence, even envied it at times, but they inhabited different worlds. Eren’s unpredictability and tendency to skirt the rules made him magnetic and unattainable to Historia. She knew that any entanglement with him would likely lead to heartache—his world was too chaotic, too far removed from the structured life she had been groomed for.
In many ways, Eren represented everything she was drawn to and everything she needed to avoid. The allure of rebellion, the cautionary tale of the risks that came with straying too far from the path laid out for her. She resigned herself to admiring him from afar.
It was easy to recognize who he chose to acknowledge in the hallways, why the teachers let him get away with looking like a sleaze, what type of job he was going to have judging by the watch on his wrist. The only difference between them was that Historia was a woman, and Eren was a man, and there were many things she had to fight for that were handed to him as a more than clear given. Historia’s intellect was not effortless, but she had perfect breasts. It had to count for something.
Historia chose her favorite corner of the library, a plush two-seater couch positioned just right so she could see everyone entering and leaving the room. Today, it was fortuitously empty, save for one person who had made himself comfortable on the opposite side. She knew who it was without looking. Her entire body was attuned to his presence like a magnet to iron filings.
She settled into the couch in an elegant, practiced motion. Her posture was as immaculate as ever, back a straight, nicely arched line as she leaned back, a book open in her lap more as a prop than anything else. She glanced up through her eyelashes, pretending to be engrossed in the pages before her. Her mind, however, was elsewhere, meticulously plotting.
Slowly, with an air of nonchalance, Historia shifted her position, drawing her feet up onto the couch. Her skirt, so painstakingly stiff, fell open just enough to reveal the lace trim of her panties.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him lift his head. Didn’t even have to look; Eren’s gaze swept over her with a heat that made her stomach clench. Her heart pounded, sending a hearty portion of blood rushing down. She couldn’t look directly at him, because that would break the spell. Instead, she allowed herself to sink deeper into the couch, making the exposure seem even more accidental.
The book she held trembled slightly in her hands. She felt the weight of his eyes travel up her legs, linger on the delicate lace, and then move up to her face. For a moment, their eyes met. His were dark and uncaring—but she knew he cared. She hoped the fuzzy lighting of the library hid the red spreading across her cheeks.
Historia pretended to return to her book, but the words blurred into meaningless nothings. Her mind was entirely focused on the boy across the room and the silent game they were playing. He was too smart not to be fully and completely aware of his surroundings.
She adjusted her position again, skirt shifting just a bit more. The thrill of being seen, of breaking her own rigid rules, was severely intoxicating.
Eren didn’t look away. He watched her with a maniacal intensity, and it made her skin prickle with heat. She wanted to hate him for it, for making her feel so out of control, but she could never deny the thrill that accompanied his attention; even if it was just a look.
From across the room, she caught a flicker of movement. Of course, she wasn’t looking, never was—but now she was.
Eren shifted in his seat, posture no longer languid but charged with a new tension; like a string had been pulled through him. His hand moved to his lap, adjusting himself discreetly. Historia’s eyes widened, and a thrill shot right through her.
He was affected, visibly and undeniably, by the sight of her.
Not that she cared, of course. She didn’t care. She cared so little that the words in her book were scrambled and made no goddamn sense.
Historia couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. Eren’s hand lingered, pressing and rearranging, trying to find relief for an unnecessarily extended stretch. The faintest outline of his erection was visible through the fabric of his slacks. She wanted it to rip her in half.
It was so quiet. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. Blood roared in her ears, and heat spread across her skin. She shifted again, letting her skirt ride up further, letting one of her legs drop down the couch, exposing even more of her by spreading her thighs further. Fingers tight around the book, knuckles white, she licked her finger to flip the page. Slowly—tongue rolling over her long, freshly manicured nail.
She felt a horrible urge to push the boundary even further. As far as she could, in fact, and as politely as possible.
Historia clenched her thighs back together. She squeezed the muscles inside her, spiking the throb and the wetness building between her legs. It was a desperate, disgusting reaction, as if her body had no choice at the sight of him. The pressure and rhythm of her own muscles were driving her crazy. Historia’s body trembled. She didn’t even need to touch herself; he was doing all the work for her.
That pulsing, swollen, full heat between her legs. Starving for him. Him, out of everyone she could have, any rich boy’s cock to swing around, she wanted the one she’d never spoken to and hated.
The blaze of her disgust sent Historia spiraling toward an edge she hadn’t anticipated reaching so quickly.
She struggled to maintain calm. The pleasure of him watching built and built until she could hardly breathe, nostrils flaring. She fought to keep her eyes on Eren’s, drawing strength from the dark, predatory hunger she saw in them. He knew what she was doing, and it only spurred her on.
He adjusted his cock once more, this time less discreetly, by sliding a hand behind his belt, the zipper of his pants folding over the hard outline of his arousal. His eyes were locked onto hers, like filled with a challenge.
Historia imagined standing up, now. She imagined her movements tastefully slow, the hem of her skirt swaying as she walked across the library to where Eren sat. Her white thigh-high socks cutting into the soft of her inner thighs, little shoeless feet standing out atop the dark wood floor. She could see herself stopping in front of him, looking down at his face. Him, looking up at her.
Without a word, because she didn’t want to talk to him, because he was him and she was her, she would reach under her skirt, fingers slipping beneath the damp of her underwear. She would pull them aside, exposing her wet, aching core to his hungry eyes. She would note the moment his composure shattered, and she imagined he would beg her to come closer.
She imagined herself straddling him, skirt bunching around her waist, the lace of her panties rolled up, exposing her. She would sink down onto him, that big, fat cock filling her completely, stretching her through a hot pain. Her thighs, encased in those white nylon socks, would press against his hips as she began to move, slowly at first, then faster, driven by the need to feel every inch of him.
Eren’s hands would find her hips as he guided her movements, making her fuck him like he wanted to. He would breathe down her neck, and he would be miserable with his want. She would lean in, hair falling around them like a curtain, lips brushing his ear as she whispered filthy, desperate things she would never say out loud—things she couldn’t even say to him in her head.
She would ride him with full abandon, with frantic and needy and sharp movements. God, she was willing to risk everything to feel his cock throb when he came. Preferably inside her. She just had to own him, somehow. She wanted him to want her.
The fantasy was so vivid and so intensely real that Historia’s body reacted in kind. Her muscles clenched around nothing, pulsing heat building until she couldn't hold back anymore. Her thighs quivered, and she let out a soft, involuntary moan, barely audible in the hushed library. The climax hit her in waves, leaving her knees trembling against each other. Her vision blurred, and she fought to keep her composure, though she suspected that Eren could see the telltale signs.
When she finally came back to herself, she saw Eren still watching her.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, casually crossing his legs—as if he wasn’t.
The question sounded so strange in that large, empty space.
She felt a rush of embarrassment hit. “Excuse me?”
Eren smiled. Sliding his fingers down the stitching of his book, he noted the page number and closed it. “Interesting thoughts, I’m sure,” he murmured as he stood up slowly, fluid and confident, like always, and walked over to where she sat.
Historia’s heart jumped as he approached. He stopped just in front of her and reached out, gently lifting her chin with his fingers, forcing her to look up at him. Forcing, when she already willingly would have, but she liked that he made her do it.
“Stop following me,” he softly said, deceptively gentle, thumb brushing over her lower lip.
She swallowed hard, unable to find her voice. The way Eren looked at her pinned her in place, making her feel exposed. He was taller this close.
Historia’s mind raced, the closeness of his body making it difficult to think straight. She was just inches away from his groin, and he made no effort to pretend he didn’t enjoy it.
“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she managed to stammer.
“Don’t be stupid,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “I see you.”
Historia tried to look away, but his grip on her chin tightened, holding her in place. Eren’s eyes bore into hers, a dark glint of knowing that made her pulse quicken.
“You always linger here, never actually picking anything good,” he began, so quiet that only she could hear.
“I—”
“No, shut up.” His thumb traced the outline of her top lip, swiping away at lipgloss. “You always pause to retie your shoes at the top of the staircase, like you’re stalling for something. Don’t do that with a skirt so short.”
Historia thought she might die. Looking up at him, doe-eyed, she just stared.
“You left a book behind once,” Eren whispered, his face now inches from hers, “next to the window on the second floor, where you like to sit and pretend you’re not waiting for me to walk by. Still don’t know what I’m talking about?”
Her knees felt weak.
Eren pulled back slightly, just enough to look into her eyes again.
“Stop fucking following me,” he said. “Or at least be better at it.”
With that, he straightened up and released her chin, their moment of intimacy abruptly broken. Historia sat there, breathless and shaken, as he turned and walked away.
She had been exposed, laid bare by his unnerving accuracy, and yet, all she could think about was the next time their paths would cross.
She was in way over her head.
Historia knew this moment would replay in her mind long after she left the library. She didn’t expect it would leave her thinking about him for days.
Complete, unrestrained, full-fledged and violently explicit thoughts of Eren having her however he wanted, whenever he wanted—because she knew he would. She sat in class and gauged the height of her professor’s desk to think of the angle in which Eren could slam into her. Walking down the hallway, she imagined Eren pressing her up against the lockers, hands rough and demanding, lifting her skirt and just taking her. She could almost feel the cold metal against her cheek and the heat of his breath on her neck as he thrust into her.
In the bathroom stall, she thought about him sneaking in behind her, locking the door with a quiet click. Her fingers would grip the edge of the sink as he took her from behind, holding her up by the throat, making her watch them in the mirror. His hands would be everywhere—pinching her nipples through her blouse, grabbing the soft of her ass, pulling at her skin, needing her.
During lunch, she imagined slipping away to the school’s empty music room. The piano would become their stage. Skirt hiked up as she sat on the glossy black surface, legs spread wide. Eren would kneel before her, mouth swallowing every inch of her, tongue driving her to profanity. She would pull at his hair, guiding him deeper, grinding up against his wet, hot mouth until she came, and then again, and again.
And in the library, as Historia returned books in exchange for new reads, she pictured them finding a hidden corner among the stacks, where she would drop to her knees, unbuttoning his pants with trembling fingers, taking him into her mouth as his hands tangled in her hair. She wanted him to fuck her face like he wanted to fuck her. She knew she was small; that her mouth would never fit all of what he was. She wanted the struggle.
Historia’s want followed her through the corridors of their school and into her private moments. She found herself noticing him more often, even more so now that she wasn’t supposed to. She refused to look when he was; he couldn’t know that she wanted him, or how badly she did—which, outright devastating, how bad it was.
But he knew. Eren would walk past her in the hallways, brushing against her rougher than needed for how wide the halls were. They were never that crowded, so he was telling her something. Sometimes, when passing by, he would linger just a fraction too long, and his hand would slide over the small of her back, or ghost over her thigh, just where her skirt ended, in a straight line.
She couldn’t tell if the touches were intentional or just her imagination running wild. But every time it happened, it felt deliberate.
So Historia, in turn, found herself seeking him out in every room she entered. Her eyes tracked his movements like a predator in the skin of a snow rabbit. She knew things about him that others didn’t—the location of his family’s estate, the classes he preferred, all his favorite spots on campus. It was an odd dance they were engaged in, a silent stalker’s tango that felt… mutual. Their attraction was a magnetism that neither could resist, drawing them closer even as they circled each other, becoming a silent competition of who could gather more information, who could predict the other’s next move. It was as if they were two hunters circling each other, testing boundaries without ever fully committing to the chase.
Eren’s mixed signals were driving her insane. One day, he would ignore her entirely, not even glancing her way. She would sit in the library and study, the good girl she was, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, but he would be nowhere to be found. It was as if he had vanished, leaving her yearning and frustrated. Or, she would see him talking with his friends, laughing, uninterested, and it stung.
But then, the next day, he would be everywhere. The confusion was maddening. She would catch him watching her with an obsession, only for him to turn away as if he hadn’t seen her at all. Eren had ensnared her, and she was powerless to escape.
Weeks passed that way.
One afternoon, as she sat in her usual spot in the library, Eren walked through the large wooden door, and slid right into the seat across from her. He leaned in, close enough that she could smell him.
“Do you enjoy torturing yourself like this?” he asked.
Historia gaped at him, shaken by the sudden arrival.
“Torturing—?” She replied, trying to sound aloof, even though every fiber of her being was already crudely drawn to him.
Eren’s eyes narrowed. “You keep doing it, Historia.”
She swallowed hard, the sound of her name on his lips licking heat down her spine. “I’m just studying,” she said, gesturing to the books in front of her.
“Studying what? Me?” His eyes flicked to her open notebook, where doodles of small hearts littered the margins. “See what I mean?”
“Well, that’s just…” she stammered, trying to regain some semblance of control.
Eren’s expression softened slightly, but the intensity in his eyes remained. “You don’t want this,” he said quietly. “Whatever it is you’re going through, get over it.”
“You don’t know what I want,” she shot back, more forcefully than she intended.
He reached out over the table, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. The small motion was enough to make her jolt in her seat, so hard that the legs of that chair creaked.
“You don’t even know what it means—to want,” he says.
“Do you?” she challenged, just above a whisper. “I know how to want something just as much as you do.”
Eren’s eyes darkened. “What is it you want then, Historia? Tell me.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat. He was right, in some ways; how could she possibly tell him that she wanted him—or how she wanted him?
He seemed to sense her struggle. Without breaking eye contact, he stood up and moved to sit next to her. The proximity made her heart race, the heat of his body pressing against hers like that.
Eren’s hand slid up her thigh, fingers grazing her skin with maddening slowness. Historia’s mind shot blank.
“What do you want, Historia?” he repeated, low and taunting.
“I-I…” she stammered, her voice trembling. “I want… I don’t— I don’t know.”
“Liar,” Eren said, his hand moving higher, inching closer to the hem of her skirt. “You know exactly what you want.”
Her mind was a glow of desire and fear, unable to form coherent thoughts. “Please…” she whimpered, legs picking up their trembling.
“Please—what?” he murmured, leaning in close, his breath hot against her ear. “Say it.”
“I can’t,” she gasped.
“Fine.” Eren’s fingers slid under her skirt, grazing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. “Let your body do the talking.”
Historia’s breath came in shallow gasps. She was completely at his mercy.
“Do you feel that?” he whispered, his fingers teasing her cunt through the thin fabric of her panties. “That’s what wanting feels like.”
She nodded frantically, unable to do anything but surrender to the overwhelming sensation.
“I could do anything to you right now, and you’d let me, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” she breathed, the word escaping her lips before she could stop it.
He slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of her panties, feeling the heat and wetness that had already soaked through. “There it is,” Eren whispered, almost to himself, as if marveling at the effect he had on her. “That’s what I wanted to see.”
He pulled his hand away, fingers just barely glistening. Without breaking eye contact, he brought them to his lips, tasting her.
She could only stare.
She couldn’t believe it.
“You’re addictive,” he said. “You want me so badly it makes you fucking miserable. I like my girls like that.”
She was consumed by him, her every thought, every desire, every moment spent in a torturous longing for his attention. He was right. Historia wished so badly he’d be wrong at least once, but she must be too easy to read.
“I thought you didn’t like me,” she quietly said.
“I don’t like who you’re pretending to be,” Eren replied, matter-of-factly, already cutting through her defenses.
So somebody had picked up on it. If there was anyone who would, it would be him. She had spent years cultivating the image of the perfect student, the flawless daughter, the untouchable beauty.
“Fine. So I’ll be someone you like,” Historia said.
Eren leaned on the table, resting his head against his knuckles. “Drives me insane.”
“What does?”
“Knowing I have this power over you.”
Historia looked away. “If it makes you sleep better at night.”
Then came the academy’s annual masquerade.
Historia knew; some of the tension had to break. The pretenses they had upheld, the carefully crafted indifference, it was all built on straws to begin with, and relied on her patience only, and she was running out of it like a jar with no bottom.
She stood bare before the ornate mirror in her bedroom and washed champagne around in her mouth. He had to want her; this body was an amalgamation of what every man could ever desire. She knew she had to get dressed soon, but vanity had put its foot in the door and entered her soul.
Her attire was planned meticulously, each piece selected with only the intention to captivate and entice. Every detail was chosen with Eren in mind—of what he could want on her, or off her. He wasn’t the only one who would want her, and she liked the thought of it, of him having to compete for a given victory.
Cream gloves. A delicate lace corset caged her waist into something Eren could easily grab with both hands, and maybe even have his fingers meet. Its white fabric shimmered in the soft glow of the vanity lights, adorned with embroidered patterns that traced along her skin. She cinched the laces at the back, adjusting the fit until it hugged her body so snug she could barely breathe.
She fastened the lace bands of her garters to the tops of sheer stockings, relishing the sensation of having nothing to cover—underwear was of no importance if there was a chance he could feel the absence of it. Her skirt was short, poofy and frilled, barely grazing the curve of her ass, which was a fair and daring choice. It swirled around her legs as she moved, hemline teasingly revealing more of her toned legs with each step. She adjusted the lace trim, ensuring it lay just right against her skin.
Historia’s reflection in the mirror revealed the closest to an angel she could think of. Her hair fell in large, loose waves that rippled over her shoulders, framing her face like a halo, lashes long and caked in mascara. But the thoughts she was having, the gates to Heaven were locked to her, five times over.
She soaked herself in perfume and left the mirror’s magnetizing stare.
Down the grand staircase, her family chauffeur awaited. He held the car door open with a nod as she approached. Historia stepped gracefully into the backseat, skirt swirling around her legs as she settled into the soft leather upholstery, knowing that even his eyes followed.
The masquerade was in full swing when Historia arrived, flashing in sequin, glitter, feathers and opulent costumes, countless masked faces twirling under the grand chandeliers. Music filled the air, guiding every step and sway. Historia moved through the crowd, eyes scanning for him, knowing he would be there, begging he would have made the choice to come—
She spotted him almost right away. She must’ve known where to look.
Eren stood by the large pillar that marked the edge of the dance floor, eyes, no doubt, locked onto her the moment she entered the room—as were everyone’s. A black mask covered half his face, but that stare burned her like no other. He wore a black lace shirt that sat perfectly on his frame, collar high and frilled, and Historia thought she saw gold coat his fingernails when he lifted up his wine glass.
Historia glided towards him, heart pounding in time with the music. As she reached him, Eren bowed and extended his hand, and she took it without hesitation.
He pulled her into an embrace, and their bodies aligned perfectly for how different they were. Eren’s right hand found its place on her lower back, pressing her close. Then, it slid lower, resting just above the curve of her ass, fingers hooking behind the hard, boned edge of her corset. He leaned in, drowning her in his cologne, and whispered, “You whore.”
“Who, me?” Historia responded with a coy smile, fingers trailing up his chest, the squared edges of her nails catching onto every inch of his lace shirt, scraping it. “No such thing.”
“Hi, stuck up little princess, always acting like the world owes you something.”
“Hi, arrogant fucking dick.”
Eren smiled. “Ruffled your perfect feathers, Reiss?”
Historia stuck out her tongue at him.
Both of his hands slid over her ass then, reaching the hem of her skirt, and pushing her upwards against him. God, was he hard; she felt the stinging heat of it. Fingers fluttered beneath her skirt, feeling up the lace garter, and ran over the clips holding her stockings in place. Soon, he found the bare skin of her thighs, and pulled her even closer, erection pressing insistently against the boning of the corset. With a deft movement, one hand moved further up, slipping between her legs.
“God— What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed quietly into her ear. “You’re not wearing any underwear.”
Historia clung to him, body weak. There was never any expectation that he would be inexperienced, with the way he carried himself, but she was floored by the dead-on precision in which his middle finger moved against her clit.
“And you think I did it for you,” she bluffed through her teeth, trying to keep it together. The champagne must’ve gotten to her head.
Lips brushing past her ear and over her earlobe where a small pearl earring dangled, Eren delved that same finger inside her, but only to his first knuckle. The small, faint, shallow stretch of it was a zap that made her thighs fold back together like a rubber band was snapped over them.
“Point out one man you’ve looked at since you got here. You’re a godawful fucking liar.” He leaned in, breathing down her cheek as his finger sank deeper into her. “There are better things to do with that pretty mouth than lie.”
Yes, that’s all it is: her pretty mouth. Made for moaning his name against her silk pillowcase, sucking on his fingers, and struggling to fit around his cock. A pretty mouth knew nothing else. It didn’t have to; she wanted him to do all the talking for her.
It felt like Eren was playing her body like a finely tuned instrument. Historia’s hips moved in time with his hand, begging him to fill her more. The crowd around them was lost in their own revelries, but the thrill of their public display only spiked Historia’s arousal.
Eren’s other arm was wrung around her waist, pulling her harder against him. “You like this?” he whispered. “Being a good for nothing, vain, pretty fucking thing?”
“Mhmmm…” Historia breathed, eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure built.
Eren’s fingers moved with painful precision. He kept her pinned against him, suffocating the movement under her skirt as he continued his taunts, voice dripping with all the desire he vesseled for her.
“You little whore,” he murmured, finger curving just right to hit that spot inside her.
Historia’s hips bucked involuntarily against his hand, her body betraying her as he spoke. His words were vile. She wanted them.
“Look at you,” Eren sneered, his thumb now rubbing circles over her clit while his finger continued its relentless thrusts. “So fucking desperate. God, you’re soaking my fucking hand.”
She whimpered, fingers digging into his shoulders as she struggled to stay upright. Eren’s other hand gripped her ass harder, lifting her slightly to get better access, making sure she felt every inch of him pressing against her.
“Flaunting your shit like that when you only want me,” he whispered. “Are you happy, slut?”
Historia’s head fell back, body arching into his touch. She was beyond words, her only response rolling out her mouth as a soft, desperate moan.
Eren’s fingers curled inside her, hitting that sweet spot again and again, never letting up on her clit—perfectly paced, like he’d mapped her out on a table. “You like that, don’t you?” he growled. “You like being used. You like knowing that anyone could see you like this. You want them to know.”
The elegance around them fell flat. Historia felt dirty. Wearing all that white didn’t suit her; she really was just a whore in his hands.
“You’re going to come for me, aren’t you?” he whispered, his fingers never slowing. “Right here, in front of everyone, because you’re a needy little girl who can’t get enough. Yeah?”
Her breath hitched, legs shaking violently as he shoved another finger in. God, it was three now, and she was losing her mind. Eren’s grip tightened, driving into her with a ruthless precision that left her no choice.
“Come on. Come for me,” he said—no, he was begging her to. “Please.”
Historia’s entire body convulsed. She clung to him, riding out her orgasm, and he held her through it. Eren’s fingers never stopped, prolonging her pleasure until she was a trembling, boneless mess in his arms.
As she came down from her high, Eren withdrew his fingers from her—yes, nails painted gold—holding them up to her lips. “Open,” he commanded, and she did, taking his fingers into her mouth, tasting herself on him. Strawberry lipgloss, mint gum and pussy; what a palette.
“Good girl,” Eren murmured, sliding them around her mouth, knowing he owned it, dragging his fingers along the soft tissue of her cheek. “Go, have fun now. If you can walk.”
And he let her go. Stumbling backwards just a bit, Historia realized she had put a bit too much faith in her legs with those heels on.
If she couldn’t stop thinking about him before, well, now she was just done for.
Since the masquerade, a taut string of anticipation had been pulled at Historia’s feet. Eren kept his distance, but his presence was always felt. At least now it had been established—they both wanted it.
Historia was aching for him. Her nights were filled with restless dreams, days with stolen looks. She could feel him watching her and sense the same hunger mirrored in his eyes, but he would never make a move. The waiting was driving her mad. She hated thinking that she was going to have to beg for it.
Historia had gotten so used to lounging at the library that she’d actually burned through a couple of books. Surely, any reading that could be done had to stop the second Eren walked in. Like most days, this was the same as always—except that he entered and took the seat beside her immediately, knee brushing against hers.
“You’ve been quiet,” he noted.
“I’m the same as always,” she shot back, voice steadier than she felt.
Eren tilted his head slightly, studying her. “Not quite,” he murmured, eyes lingering on her face. “Seems like you’re cutting back on the desperation.”
Historia burned up at his observation. She looked away, pretending to focus on the book in front of her.
Eren leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “Or maybe you got your fill.”
She actually scoffed at that and shot him a withering glare. “One lucky accident doesn’t count as ‘fill’.”
“Enough to keep you thinking about it.”
“I was drunk on champagne.”
“You were dying to fuck me the whole night.”
Historia flipped the page with a bit more force than necessary. “You wish.”
“Maybe I do. You know, if you were any smarter…” Eren purred into her ear, “you’d have noticed the librarian leaves for breaks.”
Historia stared down at her book, feeling her heart thump. “So?” Her cheeks flushed with desire. She wanted him so badly it hurt, but refused to give him the satisfaction of acting the part. “I won’t beg.”
“Oh, you don’t have to. Come.” He reached out and took her hand. Historia took a deep breath as he stood, pulling her to her feet. She glanced around nervously, but the library was quiet, except for the two of them.
Eren looked over his shoulder as he led her through the rows of bookshelves, each step echoing softly on the wooden floor. Historia followed, her hand tingling where he held it, anticipation warring within her. Eren’s confidence was dulling her logical thinking, drawing her in, despite her best efforts to resist.
They reached a dusty glass-pane door at the back of the library, which looked seldom used. Eren pushed it open with his shoulder, revealing a small room filled with old, unused books and furniture covered in sheets. The air held the scent of aged paper and dust.
Eren pulled her inside, slowly closing the door behind them. Historia’s breath quickened as she looked around, every sense heightened by the intimacy of the space.
“You bring every girl here?” she asked, voice trembling just enough to betray the small drop of jealousy.
Eren turned to face her. “No,” he said honestly, looking her directly in the eyes. “I’ve never brought anyone here before.”
The sincerity in his voice made her heady. She wanted to believe him.
Eren stepped closer. His hand was still holding hers. “Do I scare you?”
“No.”
“Do you trust me?”
Not really. But she still kissed him for an answer.
Of course, he had to be a good kisser, too. Eren’s lips met hers with such softness that she thought he was doing this for a living. His free hand slid onto her cheek, and then, from her cheek to the back of her neck. He pulled her closer, and Historia melted into him, her arms wrapping around his neck as she gave in to the heat that had been building since the day she first saw him.
Eren’s hands roamed her body. She felt his fingers slide under her shirt, brushing against her bare skin, sending sparks of pleasure through her. Historia’s breath hitched as he trailed kisses down her neck.
“You don’t have to beg for anything,” Eren whispered against her skin. “I was… wondering when you’d finally break.”
Her heart swelled at his words. “So you broke first.”
“Have you seen yourself?” Eren’s hands moved to her hips, lifting her onto an old, sturdy table. He stood between her legs, pushing her back so she’d lean on her elbows.
Historia’s blouse was now untucked and didn’t do her much grace. Eren took a moment to drink in the sight of her, perched on the edge of the old table, skirt riding high on her thighs. He took a step closer, his hands sliding along her sides, feeling the curves of her waist beneath his fingertips.
“God, you look good.” Low and rough, he said it. He let his fingers trail up her sides, grazing the underside of her breasts through the thin fabric of her blouse. Slowly, his hands moved to the pearl-white buttons of it. He undid them slowly, one by one, eyes never leaving hers.
She felt herself losing all of her composure again.
With her blouse fully unbuttoned, Eren pushed it off her shoulders, exposing the delicate lace trim of her bra. His fingers traced the edge of it. “Always white?”
“I like white.”
“It suits you,” he said, his lips following the path his fingers had taken, leaving a trail of warmth and sensation in their wake.
Eren leaned in, pressing a kiss to the hollow of her throat, then lower, between her breasts. Historia’s breath was already coming up short as his lips moved over her skin, so she turned her head to press her mouth onto her shoulder.
“Please, don’t. I want to hear you,” Eren whispered, his hands sliding up her thighs, pushing her skirt higher. “I want to make you feel things you’ve never felt before.”
Shouldn’t be hard; he already was.
His fingers brushed down the insides of her thighs, and Historia’s body arched toward him. Eren leaned back slightly, eyes meeting hers again as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties, pulling lightly at them. He let it snap back against her skin. A small, considerate smack.
Eren’s hands returned to her hips, pulling her closer to the edge of the table. It was easy, with all the strength he had. He spread her legs wider, eyes darkening with desire as he took in the sight of her, and pet her ankle through the white stocking, finger tracing the round bone.
Historia felt like a dog, already drooling and swollen under thin lace, cold wetness clinging to her with every movement. It was like glue, seeping through the mesh.
Eren pressed his lips against her soft inner thigh, fingers ghosting over the trim of the stocking that cut into it. “You’re bleeding,” he whispered.
His words took a second to reach Historia’s brain—like she had been starved of oxygen. “What?”
“Here,” Eren trailed his thumb over her clit, pushing softly at the wetness. “All red.”
She sat up to look down.
“Oh, God.” As Eren’s words sank in at the sight of herself, Historia felt a flush of embarrassment wash over. Her cheeks burned as she tried to close her legs, but Eren’s firm hands on her hips prevented her from doing so.
“No, no,” she stammered, voice trembling. “I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I must’ve missed—”
“It’s pretty,” he cut her off. “I like it.”
Eren leaned in, pressing another kiss to her thigh, lips soft against her skin. Historia let out a small whine, fingers curling into the edge of the table for support. Eren’s touch was maddeningly gentle, fingers tracing patterns on her skin as he took his time exploring her.
“I want to taste you,” he whispered, barely audible. His fingers continued their slow, deliberate movements, teasing her, building her desire until she felt like she might burst. “Can I?”
“Eren, it’s… I’m bleeding,” she whispered, voice wavering.
Kneeling before her, he looked up with an intense, almost feral hunger in his eyes. His hands gripped her thighs harder, while still remaining gentle. “I don’t care,” he replied, words hot against her flesh.
“Can it wait?”
“Can you?”
Fuck, no, she wanted to say.
Without breaking eye contact, Eren hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties again and pulled them down slowly, exposing the intimate evidence of her cycle. The sight seemed to only fuel him, that unrestrained hunger and possession. He brought his hand to her core, fingers sliding through the mixture of blood and slickness, gathering it on his fingers.
Historia watched, fists clenched tight, as Eren lifted his hand, fingers smeared with her, and slowly wiped them across her white stockings, leaving two lines of red on them.
“Look at that,” he said quietly, with a rough edge.
She couldn’t, because she was too busy losing her mind. She couldn’t fathom what was happening, much less that it was happening to her—and even less, that it was Eren kneeling before her. Historia arched her hips toward him, silently begging for more. Eren’s eyes lit up as he watched her, thumb continuing to press softly against her clit, drawing out her pleasure. Then, he pressed a small kiss to her most sensitive spot, tongue flicking out to taste her.
Historia nearly screamed.
“You like this?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.
“Yes. Yes, I want—” God, she was needy. “I want more. You can…”
“You want more?”
She could only nod.
Eren’s lips curved into a satisfied smile. “Thank you,” he murmured, his fingers sliding down, parting her folds. He leaned in closer, and looked up. “I’ll be good.”
His lips and tongue made contact with no hesitation.
Any embarrassment Historia had felt suddenly melted away. With a soft moan, she slid back onto her elbows, fully soaking up the softness of his mouth on her. Lightly, the same way he kissed her, his tongue drew lines over her clit, hands gripped both her thighs firmly, holding her in place as his mouth worked magic.
“Eren,” she gasped, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer—as if there was anywhere else to go.
He responded with a deep, satisfied growl, the vibration of his low timbre reaching her every nerve. Eren moved with a practiced precision, alternating between sucking and licking, tongue marking every inch of her, like he tried to lick her clean. The taste of her blood almost seemed to drive him wild, because he whined against her, and it broke her even further.
She had no idea what it was that dripped down—his spit or more blood. She genuinely didn’t care anymore. It just felt good. Better than what she could do on her own, better than anything she could ever have in her life, she was sure.
Eren pulled off, only a little, heaving—and only to whisper, “God, you taste good.”
With a swift motion, he lowered his head again, mouth finding her clit with a growing hunger. Historia fully enjoyed that he was the desperate one now.
Well, she was, too.
Historia’s stifled moans filled the room, hips bucking against his face as he drove her closer to an orgasm. Funny how with him, it took no time. And when he slid those same red-stained fingers inside her pussy again, it sent her spiraling into ecstasy. She cried out only half of his name, trembling uncontrollably. Eren held her through it and didn’t stop, tongue and fingers working in perfect harmony to draw out every last bit of her climax.
When she finally came down from her high, jerking away from how overstimulated she’d become, only then did he pull back, lips and chin glistening with her blood and arousal. He looked up at Historia, almost cutely, and wiped his mouth down her stocking.
“Good girl,” Eren said, kissing her clit; still sensitive, but his lips moved so softly that she could’ve sworn she was ready for more.
Historia lay there, body still trembling from the intensity of her orgasm. Her breath came in quiet, shallow waves as she tried to regain some clarity. Eren’s hands moved gently over her, massaging her thighs, palming at her soft flesh with a tenderness she never expected from him.
But even as she lay there, recovering, a deeper need stirred within her. The way Eren’s touch lingered, the way his eyes bore into hers with unrestrained hunger, was like he expected her to ask for more. And she wanted more. She needed more. She’d been thinking about it all this time, and she was riddled with that horrible need. Now, she also knew; it would be the best sex of her life, without a doubt.
With a sudden burst of determination, Historia pulled her legs up onto the table, spreading herself fully for him. The move was brazen, and the look in her eyes dared him to take her further.
Eren’s breath turned into a groan. For a moment, he looked as if he might break at the sight of her, so open and inviting, and right there. He ran a hand through his hair, slicked back with a sheen of sweat and anticipation.
“You’re going to kill me,” he said quietly.
She bit her lip, a shy smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Please?”
His hands moved up her thighs, bending her back by her shins, eyes drinking in the sight of her exposed and ready. “Are you always this insatiable?”
“Are you always this good at eating pussy?”
Eren smiled against her knee, kissing it. “I’ve never done it before.”
Historia forgot to conceal the shock on her face. “What?”
“Mhmmm,” he hummed, nipping at her stocking.
“You’ve never—? Have you ever had sex before?”
He shook his head, a small, self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. “No.”
She was fully taken aback, unable to reconcile this revelation with the confidence and skill he had just displayed. “But you’re…” Her voice was laced with genuine confusion.
Eren shrugged. “I read a lot for a reason,” he admitted, eyes traveling over her body, taking in every detail. Historia saw, visibly, how his desire swelled. “I just want you. More than I’ve ever wanted anyone.”
“What about ‘I like girls like that’?”
“I do like girls like that.” His hands moved with newfound purpose, gliding over her skin, caressing her small body. His fingers traced the curves of her hips, the swell of her breasts, and the soft spread of her thighs. “I like girls like you. You make me want things I’ve never allowed myself to want.”
Eren’s want was dark, and it filled the room, spreading into every corner of it. He reached up, loosening his uniform tie with a slow tug, eyes never leaving hers.
“Turn around,” he commanded softly, the authority in his voice making Historia shiver.
She obeyed, heart pounding in her chest as she slid off the table and turned her back to him. In a rough motion, Eren pushed her down onto the table by her neck, the force of it making her gasp. He kicked her legs apart with his foot, spreading her wide.
“Stay still,” he cooed, pulling her arms behind her back.
Historia felt his silk tie wrap around her wrists.
Eren tied the knot firmly, but paused for a moment, tucking a finger between her skin and the strained fabric. “Is this too tight?” he asked, voice softening just a fraction.
“No,” she whispered, the anticipation making her voice sound small. “It’s fine.”
Satisfied with the answer, like a switch had been flipped, Eren’s demeanor shifted back to the intensity that had been driving him. He pushed Historia’s skirt back up, exposing her fully, hand coming down to grip her ass, and spat directly onto her pussy.
Historia started thinking about God again, for the first time since she was a child.
Eren’s fingers spread her folds, rubbing the spit into her. And then, hot and hard, she felt his cock slide between her thighs; almost like a warning of what was about to come. Eren pushed it up at her, insistently, tip prodding against her opening, letting her feel every inch of him. Historia’s body responded instinctively, pushing back.
“Have you ever had sex before?” Eren quietly asked, leaning down to kiss the small of her back.
“Sure, yeah,” Historia gasped against the table, like the only thing she’s fucked wasn’t inanimate.
“You haven’t,” he concluded. And slowly, he began to push inside, the head of his cock stretching her. The sensation was exquisite torture, filling her inch by inch.
For a second, she thought she was going to faint. It just kept going deeper and deeper in. Maybe she had underestimated the size of his dick versus the size of her.
Eren’s faltering gasp invigorated her. “Oh— God, that’s—that’s good.”
“Yeah?” Historia murmured, pushing her hips backwards, despite having no damn room to accommodate all of him.
Immediately, Eren yanked her arms back by the tie around her wrists. Since she still felt one hand grabbing her ass, the awareness that he pulled her entire torso up with the strength of one arm almost sent her spiraling.
“Don’t fucking… move,” he growled, thrusting back into her with a single, powerful stroke.
Historia cried out. But Eren didn’t give her a single moment to adjust, driving straight back into her, again, and again, and again. The force of his thrusts made the table shake beneath them. Everything about him was pure, unfiltered lust; she could feel it coat her skin, how badly he wanted her, everywhere his hands roamed. His fingers dipped down into her hair, gripping a whole fistful of it, pushing her head harder down. Historia could feel her cheekbone more clearly than ever when it was shoved into hardwood like that. It hurt. All of it hurt, the exact way she wanted, and exactly how she always imagined it.
She hadn’t imagined how he would sound. Eren’s moans were almost melodic, and he was rapidly losing his composure—because, even with all that fucking confidence leaking from him, and no matter how big his dick was, he was still fucking a tight, wet hole, and he was just a man.
Moreso, if he had truly been a virgin up until that moment, which she did actually believe, Historia felt shot with a branding iron at the thought that he’d held out for so long to give it to her. She cared very little about the feminine concept of virginity, but hearing Eren whine the absolutely miserable, boyish way he did, she cared infinitely about the fact that she’s robbing him of his.
Still, because God has his favorites, Eren fucked like a racehorse, not a virgin.
With a quiet, wet sound, he pulled out of her. Historia almost collapsed at the loss, knees buckling, body held up only by her torso that was folded over the tabletop. There was no notable indication he was close to coming, so shakily, she turned her head, blowing up at her messy hair to clear her vision, and tried to look at him.
Eren stood, hands raised to his midriff in some reverent fucking confusion. He was still wearing his uniform shirt, but his pants were bunched around his ankles, and his face was shining with sweat. Historia zeroed in on his cock, shining wet with bright blood, hanging straight, heavy and pretty between his legs, swinging along every movement of his. Her pussy stung, so she could believe it was just inside her; but otherwise, never.
“You okay?” Historia asked, catching her breath. She noticed that the hem of his white shirt had the same red on it, too.
“I almost came,” he replied, heaving, staring down at his dick. “Fuck.”
She choked out a breathy laugh. “I mean, that’s the point.”
“Inside you?”
Historia’s lips formed a tight line. As if there wasn’t the option to pull out. Fucking virgin. But…
If she was on her period, the chances were slimmer.
She thought about it for a second. Really, it only took a second—it was worth the risk.
“Inside me,” she said, as convincingly as she could. She wanted to be filled. God, by him, and with the way he fucked her, she would say yes to anything.
Eren stepped closer to her. His fingers worked on untying the knot that held her wrists together. When he loosened it entirely, Historia pushed off the table, arms shaking, and turned around to face him, uselessly flattening the pleats of her skirt, stopping only to rub the round bones of her wrists.
Before she could say anything, Eren kissed her, hard this time, claiming her mouth with the same intensity he had claimed her body. He tasted like blood still, but it didn’t matter, because he also tasted like divine devotion. The sweat on Eren’s face rubbed off on Historia’s as well, and she licked it off his lips. Refined salt, that of a perfect man.
He backed her up against a bookshelf, body pressing into hers. It was insane how small she was compared to him—Eren had to lean down almost half his height to be eye-level with her. But he seemed to recognize that, too.
Hooking his hands behind her knees, Eren lifted her up. Instinctively, Historia wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him again. She felt how his cock was nestled neatly between them, and how impatience practically emanated from both their bodies.
“You did so good,” Eren whispered against her mouth in between kisses. “My girl.”
“Your girl?” Historia dragged her nose across his cheek, gathering all the sweat with it. “Who said I’m your girl?”
“Well, no one else can make you feel like this.” He pushed her back against the same bookcase, which swung dangerously from the force, spreading her legs wide open. His fingers were digging into the soft underside of her thighs. “You shouldn’t argue with someone who fucks you like that.”
He had a point.
Historia felt his cock pressing against her. The cool sting came back—but she could watch it happen now, and it filled her with a brand new, equally disgraceful amount of want.
Eren didn’t need any more encouragement than her parted mouth. He pushed back inside her like he was meant to be there. Both of them gasped at the sensation, at the same time. Eren held Historia there for a moment, savoring the feeling, or trying to regain his senses, before he began to move.
His thrusts were more shallow now, hitting her with delicious precision, each one drawing a new moan, each new moan cut off by another one. The bookshelf behind her creaked, and they both breathed heavy onto each other over the wet, rhythmic slaps. Historia’s head fell back, hitting wood—and the sharp, sudden pain tasted good.
Her nails dug into his back through the sweat-soaked shirt. “Eren… please… keep—keep…”
And she knew how fucked she was when Eren’s hand moved between them, his fingers finding her clit and rubbing it in tight, fast circles. Of course, he had to know how to get her off. Fucking virgin.
Historia’s back arched. “F-fuck, th-that’s—”
She came with a scream that he silenced with his mouth, contracting around him. Eren rode her through her orgasm, despite her kicking her legs out and shoving hard at his shoulders. She never wanted him to stop—she was just beside herself, as if that small body couldn’t physically house that much pleasure.
But he wasn’t done, and it was done when he was done, in her mind. Eren’s hands roamed her body, gripping her hips, her breasts, her throat, as he fucked her with a wild, desperate need. “You feel so fucking good,” he whined into her neck. “God, I’m never fucking letting you go.”
Yes, anything, of course, just keep going. Historia could only moan in response, her body writhing in his arms, hands clutching at anything they could find—his arms, his back, his hair, anything to anchor herself. She felt another orgasm building, the pleasure so intense it was making her ache, searing hot through her stomach and into her chest.
Eren’s pace became erratic for her—but she could tell he was starting to clip his thrusts short.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, placing both hands on his cheeks. “It’s okay, you can.”
“I… I need to—” he gasped, squeezing her thighs so hard she mewled. “Please… Can I…”
Her heart pounded at the raw need in his voice as he begged for permission. “Yes— yes,” Historia breathed, closing her eyes, letting her head loll down her shoulder. “Do it. Fucking… fill me up, go ahead, do it.”
“I’m—”
“Inside me,” she urged, voice breaking. “Come inside me, Eren, please—”
His mouth found hers, swallowing her whines as he pounded into her. With a guttural cry, Eren buried himself deep inside. The first pulse of his release hit her, hot and thick, and she felt a rush of warmth flood her core. Eren’s moans were low and stretched out as he came, rutting softly into Historia, stomach shuddering as he emptied himself inside her.
Feeling him so hot and swollen, and being so full made her come again. Her pussy clenched around him, milking him of every last drop as he continued to thrust into her. He never slowed, even as his own release tapered off, body still trembling, and kissed her hungrily, swallowing every sound that escaped her.
“Fuck,” Eren panted. “Fuck… God—fuck.”
“Stop fucking cussing,” Historia heaved.
For a long while, they stayed like that, clinging to each other, breath shared in the stillness of the room. Eren’s grip on her softened, hands now gently caressing her thighs as he slowly came down from his high. He rested his forehead against hers.
“You’re mine. Please,” Eren quietly murmured. “No one else.”
Historia nodded weakly, her body spent and sated. “Yours,” she agreed, fully content.
Eren kissed her tenderly, before finally easing out of her. He carefully set her down, making sure she was steady on her feet before stepping back. It felt odd to be full, and she knew, if she pushed, she was going to bleed.
As the reality of their surroundings settled in, Historia glanced around. “Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.”
“What?” Eren asked, looking confused, still breathless.
She pointed at his shirt, now stained with streaks and smudges of blood. “Looks like you killed someone.”
Eren followed her gaze, taking in the sight of his shirt, now marred with red. His eyes traveled down to her stockings, which looked just the same.
“I won’t say it,” he said, but she knew what he would’ve said. That pussy.
She laughed. But laughing shot up an ache that threatened everything to spill out of her. Historia’s laughter died down, and she winced slightly at the discomfort between her legs.
He noticed, looking at her with concern. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she said, taking a deep breath, looking down. Carefully, she eased herself back up on the table. “Sore.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It feels good,” Historia insisted, kicking her legs out. Her stockings were beyond saving, and she grimaced at the sight of them. “I think I’ll just take these off.”
Eren knelt down in front of her. “Let me.”
His fingers delicately grabbed the top of one stocking, slowly rolling it down her bent leg. As he slid it off her foot, he paused to place a gentle kiss on the top of it. He moved to the other leg, repeating the process with the same careful attention. Lips brushing past her ankle, he looked up.
“Thank you,” Eren said, nuzzling against her calf. “I’ve never felt anything like this.”
From her vantage point on the table, Historia had a perfect view of Eren. He looked utterly disheveled, which didn’t diverge much from how he looked usually—but he was fucked out, and it only added to him. His hair was damp with sweat, some of it clinging to his forehead. His face glistened, cheeks flushed a deep red from exertion. His eyes, big and round, were slightly glazed, but they never left hers.
That disheveled state, combined with the adoration in his eyes, made him look impossibly handsome to her. The sight of him, so completely undone and still so oddly devoted to her, sent a thrill through her body. She thought, suddenly, that he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
“Pretty girl,” Eren said, smiling up at her.
The warmth of his praise made her stomach flutter. Eren continued to caress her legs, his hands running softly over her calves and up to her thighs, leaving a trail of kisses in their wake.
Something on the floor caught his eye. Leaning down under the table, Eren popped back up, holding Historia’s blood-stained panties hooked on one finger. Their eyes met.
“You should keep them,” Historia said. “A memento.”
He smiled. “A memento of what, exactly?
“Of the day you lost your virginity. If you didn’t lie about that.”
A slow smile spread across Eren’s face. “I will keep them,” he murmured, and slipped the white lace into the back pocket of his slacks.
As they emerged from the secluded backroom, Historia became acutely aware of one fact: the library seemed unusually quiet as they walked through the stacks. The silence was deafening. She could feel the eyes of the few patrons and staff lingering on them.
“Eren,” she whispered, glancing around. “I think everyone heard us.”
His arm slid over her shoulder. “So what?” he murmured softly. “Let them. You’re my girl now.”