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bloompompom · 10 months

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Trending Now! Beloved, international pop sensation was spotted getting hot and heavy with the lead vocalist of Devil's Paradise, Eren Jaeger, at an after-party, sparking rumors of a secret fling. The unlikely couple has yet to comment publicly on the status of their relationship, but their scandal-worthy PDA alone implies they must know each other very well.

Ha! That couldn’t be any further from the truth.

♡ pairings: rockstar!eren jaeger x popstar!female reader, eren jaeger x historia reiss ♡ content: ~8k word count. enemies-to-lovers, explicit language, alcohol, tobacco, pet names, reader discretion advised. ♡ previous chapter | next chapter | series masterlist

★ Chapter Two ★

It turns out that a fake relationship calls for just as much work as a real one.

Your life had been consumed by music for as long as you could remember—even longer than that, actually.

Your father was big in the music industry. You were talking big, big. Icon status. His band toured and filled stadiums across the country, ten times over, well before you were born. And once you were, he brought you along for the ride. He’d show you off on stage before your little eyes could even fathom what a crowd was, announcing to the world that he had a good feeling about you—what a strange thing to say about a child. But he wanted you to be a star, just like him, so a star was what you became.

Yes, for all intents and purposes, you were a nepo baby. You were sure, to outsiders, it’d seem like you were complaining about nothing. Here you were in your penthouse apartment, fresh from the bath with soaps costing more than some people make in a week, wrapped in a robe costing more than some people make in a month, lounged on a sofa costing more than some people make in a year. What could you possibly complain about?

Besides the fact that you paid for it with your soul, selling every aspect of your life away. Apparently, even down to who you can and cannot drunkenly make out with at a party.

Speaking of that, your argument with your dad didn’t seem to fix anything. Neither did Pieck’s, though you’d bet she handled her’s more rationally. You were surprised she couldn’t win him over, considering he always valued her opinion more, but even she wasn’t capable of such a feat.

But just like that pep talk you gave yourself in the mirror, you believed it was worth it.

You were never one to keep a diary, at least, not in the stereotypical sense. Your journals were filled with lyrics that served the same purpose. Every thought, even those that made your stomach sick and left your head in ruins, could be metamorphosed into something as beautiful as poetry. Really, it was poetry, kept on ruled and folded pages. Jotted down, crossed out, and rewritten over and over in messy, middle-of-the-night handwriting.

Those lyrics never met the radio or any streaming services. They were never even given the chance to meet a microphone. They were stuffed away in the depths of your closet. You didn’t have time to write anymore. You were too busy singing to backtracks, churning out song after song, written with no other purpose than to top the charts.

You thought you’d age out of your dad’s grasp one day, but his reach was far greater than you had anticipated. You were his project—you know, since his first one failed.

When your dad decided to release his first solo album, it was a flop. Not quite a fall-flat-on-your-face flop, but it was damn near close. He never outrightly named it to be the reason, but when he told you that passion projects were a waste of time, it wasn’t difficult to piece it together.

Your dad promised you the dream of stardom, and that was what you got. But whether it was his dream or yours was yet to be determined. If it were up to you, it would be just you, your poetry, and a guitar—if you could get the hang of it.

But no, you were generic.

Most of what you knew about Eren was what anyone could find from an online search because there was no way you would go and talk about yourselves over coffee. Member of Devil’s Paradise. Occupation: singer. Birthday: March 30th. He was two years older than you.

Then came the rabbit hole. A deep and descending spiral. You started with live performances, then stumbled upon some recent interviews. That was always how hate-watching began, wasn’t it? Your blood boiled as you watched Eren play it up for the cameras. Laughing at the right times, sprinkling in a charismatic smile here and there, even if you thought it made him look like a villain.

It seemed like he could get away with anything so long as he desired it. Write the songs he wanted, screw up his lyrics if he felt like it. Hell, he could have kicked his feet up on that conference table if he wanted to, you were sure of it. All the while, you couldn’t even defend yourself with Pieck stepping on your toes—literally.

You couldn’t say it enough: Eren infuriated you, ceaselessly so. But somehow, buried deep within you, you could admit the band—that he was a force to be reckoned with. Not that you’d ever say that aloud, of course.

Eren’s presence was eye-catching. He knew how to use every last bit of the stage as if he owned it. But so did the rest of the band. Even Connie—stuck behind his drumset but far from hidden. The smirk on his face was everpresent as he attempted different tricks with his drumsticks, unexpectedly nailing every one of them.

But what stood out to you the most was the energy between Mikasa and Eren. It was electric. Always in tune with one another. As you watched, you noticed a twinge of guilt when you thought about calling their band shitty—but only because of Mikasa! Either way, it didn’t matter; you planned to take the feeling to the grave.

Mikasa actually found you on Instagram a few days after that god-forsaken meeting. Word must have traveled fast. The two of you exchanged phone numbers because she insisted on calling you.

She answered the phone after only a ring. Before you could say a word, she was already apologizing for everything that happened that night, as if it were somehow her fault. She had no reason to feel responsible; you could make your own decision. You told her that, too.

“Honestly, it didn’t even cross my mind that you’d be interested in each other, but I should have known he’d try something,” Mikasa said.

You were quick to correct her. “We’re definitely not interested in each other. We were just drunk.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Mikasa ended the call by telling you to look at the bright side—the two of you would see more of each other. You feigned excitement not because you didn’t like her but because you only heard the underlying implication. You would have to see more of Eren, too.

Your PR team was adamant about keeping up appearances, desperate to clear things up as if it were a blip on your permanent record. You and Eren were ordered to paint the pretty picture of having been in a happy and committed relationship for the last two months. Don’t forget: they had your image to protect. It was one they spent years crafting.

You had them clutching at their pearls at the mere thought of you—gasp!—having drunken sexual relations with a man you had just met.

To think, all of this hubbub, and for what? You didn’t even get laid.

According to them, two months meant you had to drive home the honeymooners, lucky-in-love thing. Googly eyes and all. Anything to snuff out the salacious rumors before executive Mustache died of an aneurysm.

Think of those pictures they plaster on the front of magazines. Those candid couples wearing their absolute best because they coincidentally were papped on their way to the gym. That was what your team of publicists expected of you—on Mondays, that is. Saturdays were for strolling together. To where? Anywhere, they’d say! Ugh.

It was so very quaint, wasn’t it? As if your schedule wasn’t already crammed enough.

Since the after-party, the most time you spent with Eren was the first (and only) time you went to dinner together. Petra wanted to ensure the paparazzi caught ‘the shot,’ as she called it. Aka, a photograph of Eren feeding you a bite of food.

By the way, Petra was the nervous redhead who rambled at you during the meeting. She was one of Devil’s Paradise’s publicists—specifically, Eren’s.

She turned out to be less flighty than you thought, at least when the higher-ups weren’t around. You would maybe even say you liked her for no other reason than she was the only one who treated you like a person. Enough that she’d throw in a ‘Hey, this is pretty weird, right?’ now and again.

That didn’t stop her from dreaming up these ridiculous, borderline-fantastical ideas, like feeding each other goat cheese crostinis, dumbly giggling when Eren would miss your mouth and use his thumb to swipe your lips clean.

Spoiler alert: that never happened. And the paparazzi never snapped ‘the shot’ because you weren’t interested in having Eren feed you anything. Luckily for you, he shared the sentiment.

What a challenge it was—pretending you had eyes for someone you couldn’t bear to spend an hour with. It was a big ask for both of you. You were singers, not actors. And what was supposed to be a romantic dinner probably appeared more like you were fighting, and not the kind that looked like a lovers’ quarrel.

To be fair, there was a very small chance it was your fault this time. Just maybe you picked the wrong dinner conversation. But hey, he was the one who brought up his ex-girlfriend first.

Keeping your voice low, you asked him about Historia Reiss. Though the restaurant was dim and not exceptionally crowded, you were only out because you were supposed to be spotted together. The last thing you wanted was to become the jealous, obsessive girlfriend. You were just curious, that was all.

But Eren only said they broke up six months ago, another tidbit you could have found on Google.

“Someone’s down bad,” you poked lightly, even cracking a smile so people would think you were enjoying each other’s company. Pieck would be so proud.

When he didn’t humor it, you stifled the nasty face you wanted to make and asked, “Why’d she break up with you? Because you’re a dick?”

“Yeah, probably,” Eren deadpanned. He didn’t look up as he spoke but bitterly forked around his plate.

That was where the conversation ended. Any and all conversation, for that matter. Talk about awkward. You remembered texting Pieck under the table in a fury, telling her you would never do this again, even if it meant she’d have to lie about your whereabouts to your father.

After only two weeks, you had to tap out. No more cutesy coffee dates, no candlelit dinners, and you’d certainly be escorting yourself to the gym from now on. But Pieck could only cover you for so long before she had to call out your avoidant tendencies.

It felt like interrupting your days had become her new favorite pastime. Still in your robe, though you had left the bath over an hour ago, you lazed on the couch. Convinced everything was peachy, you thoughtlessly answered Pieck’s call with a chipper, “What’s up?”

No pleasantries were exchanged. The first words out of her mouth were, “Do you know how many days it’s been since you and Eren were last seen together?”

Her voice was far too accusing for such a pleasant day. It wasn’t even noon. She spoke so fast that you weren’t positive you heard her right. Why would you count such a silly thing?

You replied tentatively, “Um, no.”

“Twenty-seven.”

“You’re so weird for keeping track of that.”

“It’s literally my job,” she told you like she had many times before.

Yes, Pieck’s official title was manager, but she was second-in-command. Or as you liked to call it, your babysitter. While the title of personal assistant felt demeaning to give to your best friend, you couldn’t help but think ‘manager’ had gone to her head.

She continued, “Your relationship can’t consist of leaving heart and flame emojis on each other’s photos.” Why not? “You’re taking him to Sasha’s party.”

You flung upright so fast that you were surprised you didn’t fly off the sofa. “Like hell I am!”

If you opened a dictionary and flipped the pages to the word ‘influencer,’ you’d bet there would be a picture of Sasha Braus. In every sense of the word, she was an influencer. She was bubbly, a bit outlandish, and like a magnet whenever she walked into a room. You wouldn’t say she invited you to her party because you were friends, more like she invited you because you were, well, you.

She announced she was working on expanding her brand, starting with everyone’s favorite breakout product: eyeshadow palettes.

The launch party was on Saturday—two days away. You had known about it for some time now, but you conveniently kept it a secret that Sasha included a plus one to your invitation. You were actually looking forward to the event up until now.

You spewed every reason as to why this was a horrible idea, rattling away like a bad defense attorney. ‘Eren won’t go’ and ‘Actually, I think I’m coming down with the flu.’ Then came the good old-fashioned begging.

She let you wear yourself out before hitting you with, “It’s already been arranged. Sasha sent you a plus one, and I’ve spoken with Levi.” Damn it. “Oh, and Petra will be going with you to ensure you’re both on your best behavior. We don’t want a repeat of dinner.”

There was that line again. Best behavior.

You were about to end the call right there, but you decided to hear her out after she apologized. She tried to cheer you up, too, but it was a blatant attempt at reminding you not to shoot the messenger. So then you hung up on her. She’d surely scorn you for acting so childish later.

♡ ♡ ♡

“I don’t know why you’re being such a little bitch about it. Just look at her—she’s smokin’ hot.”

Connie had put one of your music videos on the flat screen during their break from practice. It must have been set to autoplay because that was ten minutes ago and you were still going. He appeared to be the only one watching, sprawled out on the couch with his hands tucked behind his head. He only tore his eyes from the screen to see what Eren had to say.

Eren leaned against the wall, paying more attention to his phone than Connie as he tried to drone out both him and your grating voice. “She’s the one that’s a b—”

“Don’t,” Mikasa interjected. Eren finally glanced up, and Mikasa caught the dreadful look in his eye. “Besides, you didn’t seem to think so when you met her.”

The bite in her tone caught Jean’s attention. He straightened out, sat a bit higher in his seat, and let a wry smile take hold of his face. “Yeah, you’re only saying that because she didn’t want to sleep with you. Let me guess, you said something—probably in your usual douchey fashion—and pissed her off.”

Eren’s eyes flitted from Mikasa to Jean. Only for a second, but with the silence, it was enough to pull a dry chuckle from Jean as he concluded, “Looks like I’m right.”

Connie rolled onto his stomach, eyes wide and interested. He might as well have been kicking his feet in the air like the little gossip he was. “Man, you had the perfect shot and fuckin’ blew it. I wouldn’t have, if it were me. To think I was this close—”

“You called her a stray,” Eren reminded.

Connie cocked a brow at him. “Oh, yeah? And what did you call her?”

Eren didn’t answer that. He pushed himself off the wall and shoved his phone into his pocket. “I’m going to get lunch.”

He didn’t want to give Connie the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him, but his dodginess alone was enough for Connie. He looked pleased with himself as he snickered, “What? You’re not gonna offer to get us any?”

“No,” Eren replied. He was too abrupt about it, what with the way he hastily grabbed his keys and wallet. He chose to ignore Connie’s and Jean’s giggling and whispering on his way out.

It might not always seem like it—especially right now—but the four members of Devil’s Paradise were best friends. As thick as thieves since the tender age of fifteen. But if you asked any of them, they’d say it has felt even longer than that.

The band had humble beginnings, practicing in Jean’s parents’ garage instead of the unimaginable studio they had now. It took nearly a decade of work, but they finally ‘made it,’ as people liked to say.

Their careers really kicked off a little over a year ago. In Eren’s eyes, it was practically overnight. Now he couldn’t even grab lunch without getting recognized. It had only gotten worse since they snagged a nomination at the upcoming alternative music awards.

Devil’s Paradise was nominated for the best album of the year. Mikasa had incessantly reminded Eren of it every day since—as if he could possibly forget. One minute she’d list all the people they should thank during their acceptance speech, then the next thing Eren knew, she’d grip at the roots of her hair and spout nonsense like, ‘We shouldn’t even bother going. We’re just going to embarrass ourselves.’ There was nothing they could do but wait for the reading of that fateful envelope, but even she was starting to make Eren antsy.

Even so, Eren liked seeing Mikasa like this. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen her so excited over something. Whenever she talked about winning, she looked just like she did when they were kids.

Mikasa was like a sister to Eren. They grew up side-by-side, quite literally. Their parents were next-door neighbors, fating Eren and Mikasa to become best friends before they had even left the womb.

Back then, there was no band. There was only Eren and his guitar, Mikasa and her bass, and their out-of-tune strumming as they attempted to teach themselves how to play. Everything only started to fall into place once they hit high school—when they met Jean and Connie.

Mikasa overheard the duo talking in the cafeteria line. Connie was complaining about getting his brand-new drumsticks confiscated during biology class. ‘Who knew it’s against the rules to drum on the dissection trays?’ And the rest was history—almost.

There were a few kinks they had to iron out, of course. One could imagine the bickering that ensued when they tried to come up with a name, but it only became a brawl once Jean and Eren both wanted to lay claim to the role of guitarist. It only fell to Jean because his singing was subpar, and that was putting it lightly.

But to this day, Mikasa and Eren were still the heart and soul of the band, just like they were back in their parents’ basement or at their school’s talent show or wherever else they found themselves. Eren wrote the lyrics, as always, but he still needed Mikasa’s hand to fine-tune the music.

That was why it was all the more difficult when the two of them butted heads. It was like everything surrounding the band came to a screeching halt. ‘Mom and Dad are fighting,’ Connie would whine. This time was no exception.

Not surprisingly, their most recent argument involved you. Mikasa genuinely felt bad that you were cornered into this position. Really, she pitied both of you, but she favored you only because she knew Eren could be a dick. The friendlier the two of you became, the more she felt trapped in the middle. And it certainly didn’t help that you and Eren were equally stubborn.

Mikasa suggested Eren should be nicer to you if he wanted this situation to be as painless as possible. She told him you were a good person—that he shouldn’t let his stupid pride get in the way of getting to know you. Eren said she didn’t get it.

Sure, Eren played it cool when you first asked him about the arrangement, but it wasn’t as though he was particularly thrilled about it. He just knew better than to act like a spoiled brat and throw a tantrum over it. Shame on him for getting involved with such a diva. Lesson learned.

Flashback to the morning following the after-party: Eren woke up in Historia’s bed. His eyes opened, and he just sort of stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore the horrible writhing in his gut. He attributed it to his hangover.

The feeling didn’t go away by the time his phone started ringing, loudly. He sifted through the sheets before it could wake Historia, but he struggled to find it. It rang a second time, and she let out a whimper of a groan. Wearing nothing but the bedsheet, she reached as far as she could without falling off the bed to fetch Eren’s phone. She tossed it to him—at him—without looking.

He missed that call, too. Both of which were from Levi.

Historia rolled over, looking at him with her cheek smushed against her pillow. “Last night catching up with you already?”

Expectedly, Eren’s phone rang a third time. He watched momentarily before replying, “Yeah, I think so.”

Eren, along with you and the rest of the band, had to sign non-disclosure agreements regarding the phony relationship. Both your teams took the matter entirely too seriously, so Eren couldn’t tell Historia about any of it. He figured he could sort that out later.

It had all become such a massive headache for him. He was relieved to have a moment to himself, even if it was limited to the thirty minutes it’d take him to get lunch.

But as it turned out, he couldn’t even get that because, speak of the devil, your name popped up on his phone screen.

Eren was going to let it go to voicemail, but he heard Mikasa in his head—yes, that happened from time to time. To him, the truly painless option would be to ignore the call, but he decided to answer at the last second.

He clicked the button for speakerphone before saying, “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me,” you said before giving your name.

Eren thought you sounded curt, especially since you were the one barging in on his day, but then again, he was learning you were always like that. “I know. Levi put your number in my phone.”

“It’s really hard to hear you.”

“I’m driving. Hold on.” Eren fumbled to turn off speakerphone. He dropped his phone and, in the hassle, the driver behind him laid on their horn. Frustrated, Eren jammed his phone between his shoulder and ear. “What do you want?”

Eren heard your scoff before you replied, “I’m guessing Levi told you about the party this weekend.” He only made a small grunt of acknowledgment, more focused on turning left at a busy intersection. “People will probably want to talk to us.”

“God forbid,” Eren snarked.

“You know what I’m trying to say! I just think we should, like, rehearse or something—I don’t know.”

Your voice tapered off there at the end, almost nervously. Eren imagined you chewing on your nail in thought on the other end of the line. “You’re really stressin’ about this for no reason, aren’t you?”

“I’m only stressed because I don’t want you to make me look dumb,” you retorted. You were getting mad; Eren could hear it even in the thick silence between you. “I don’t have any time tomorrow, so you have to come by my place as soon as you can.”

“Today? Listen, we don’t need to rehearse anything. I’m supposed to be at practice right now, anyway. I only answered because I’m getting lunch—”

“Great. Bring me something. Whatever you’re having.”

“I’m not—”

“Tell Levi to text you my address.”

And that was that.

When you hung up, Eren chucked his phone into the passenger seat. Stopped at a red light, he rubbed his eyes like he could relieve the tension behind them, cursing under his breath.

Thirty minutes. He couldn’t even have thirty fucking minutes to himself.

By the time Eren arrived at your apartment, you had finally dressed and made yourself semi-presentable—at least, you weren’t in your robe anymore.

In that time, you decided to ring Pieck. You tried to earn a few brownie points by telling her you invited Eren over to prep for Saturday, but she only told you to post a picture or else it ‘didn’t happen.’

For a split second, you thought you had opened your door to a stranger. You nearly slammed it in Eren’s face when you saw him in a ratty, old baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses too bulky for his face. You figured that was the point, though—to hide his face beyond recognition. Not enough to stop a die-hard fan, but it did the job.

Eren removed the ‘disguise’ once he was inside, setting down his hat and glasses on your entryway table. He tugged on the tie that kept his hair loosely held back, grumbling as he shook it out. “I hate having my hair up.”

“I don’t know. I think it makes you look less scruffy,” you said. You intended it as a dig, but in some way, shape, or form, it didn’t come across as such. You played it off by taking the brown bag from Eren and leading him to your kitchen. “What did you get?”

“Sushi.”

“Sounds good,” you hummed. You set the bag on the counter, plopping on the stool as you pointed across the room. “Chopsticks are in that drawer.”

It was a pleasant surprise that Eren actually listened—less so when he started opening every drawer but the one he needed. You were about to repeat yourself when the receipt stapled to the bag caught your attention.

“Jeff?” you questioned.

Eren finally found the chopsticks. He didn’t sit at the counter but stood opposite you on the far side of the island. “What? You don’t use a fake name?”

“No, I do,” you said. “It’s just that Jeff isn’t very believable. You don’t look anything like a Jeff.”

He turned the bag around so you could no longer see the receipt. He muttered, as always, when he said, “I wasn’t thinking that hard when I put it down,” as he pulled out your food. Two identical boxes, one placed in front of you.

You thought on it, just for a moment as you cracked open the plastic lid, then said, “I think you look more like a Dylan.”

“Dylan?” He actually sounded a bit offended by it, causing you to chuckle.

Not that you expected him to, but Eren never asked if you liked what he ordered for you. It was good, but out of sheer pettiness—come on! He couldn’t even give you the common courtesy of asking—you decided not to compliment his taste in sushi.

You could only compare the time you spent with Eren to a strange dance. A dance neither of you could master. You were cursed with two left feet, awkwardly side-stepping and stomping on each other’s toes again and again. Because of it, there seemed to be an underlying, mutual understanding that neither of you wanted to chit-chat. And that was the only reason lunch wasn’t entirely uncomfortable.

But eventually, you had to talk. There was a purpose to this little meet-up—one greater than hoping the paparazzi snap you canoodling on a park bench. If there wasn't, you wouldn’t have invited him over in the first place.

There were small but specific details that you’d need to iron out if you and Eren had any hope of making a convincing couple. It worked in your favor that you’d only been seeing each other for two months (wink, wink). There was no pressure to memorize every fun fact and finish each other’s sentences. No one would expect that of the couple so madly in love that they couldn’t keep their hands to themselves for even a second—that didn’t leave too much room for getting to know each other, did it?

But there was just one crucial and absolutely inevitable question you’d hear time and time again.

“They’re going to ask us how we met,” you said. It was the first break in silence, making you the loser of this invisible game between you.

You set down your chopsticks and placed your chin on the heel of your hand. After a thoughtful pause, you said, “Well, you obviously asked me out first.” That grabbed Eren’s attention. He glared at you, about to interrupt, so you jumped in. “After sliding into my DMs, perhaps?”

“Wait a second.”

“Telling me how pretty I am and that you’d just love to get to know me over a drink.” There was an airiness about you the more you played it up.

“I wouldn’t do—”

“And when you met me in person—” You mawkishly clasped your hands together. “—it was like love at first sight.”

Eren appeared more bored than usual, something you didn’t think was possible. “Finished yet?”

What a mood killer.

“Someone can’t take a joke,” you complained, dropping your hands to the cold marble. “Do you have a better idea? Because I don’t know where we would have casually bumped into each other.”

“At an after-party,” Eren answered smartly.

You frowned. Frankly, you were not looking to craft some elaborate story. The less convoluted, the better. You needed a tale dull enough that reporters would cruise on by rather than nitpick you apart. Something that even Eren couldn’t mess up.

“Besides the last part, you DMing me the most obvious route,” you said. “It’s practically un-fuck-up-able.”

“That’s not a word.”

This was going nowhere. You conceded to your phone, something to distract you, while you tried to unclench your teeth.

“Embellish it however you want, I don’t care, but we’re sticking with my story. And while we’re at it—” A benefit of inviting Eren over rather than arranging a meeting was that with no one else around—no Petra, no Pieck who’d undoubtedly call you a bitch—you finally had the liberty to demand, “I’m going to need a few things from you. Don’t give me that look.”

Behind the speckle of hatred in your eyes, there was a dash of desperation, a subtle plead to hear you out. It annoyed Eren because it reminded him of Mikasa again.

He sighed reluctantly. “Fine. Let’s hear ‘em.”

You straightened out like you were ready to make your presenting argument. “First, when this whole thing is over, I’m dumping you. Not the other way around, and definitely nothing mutual.” You pointed your chopsticks toward Eren’s takeout. “Are you going to finish that?”

He slid the container away from you, which was enough of an answer. “Is your pride seriously that important to you?”

He was one to talk.

“Think of it this way,” you started, a crude smile pulling at your lips. “I’m sure if you come crawling back to Historia all heartbroken, she’ll be more than happy to lick your wounds.”

He didn’t seem to appreciate the dating advice but let you continue with your rules.

“Speaking of Historia, I won’t stop you from getting back with her because, truthfully, I’m not all that interested in what or who you do in private. Just don’t get caught with her in public.” It was a fair stipulation—more than fair. “Can you at least promise me that?”

He gruffed a noncommittal, “Whatever.”

“No, you have to swear,” you asserted. For emphasis, you stuck out your pinky. Eren gave you that look again, but you didn’t back down. “I take this very seriously.”

Apparently, that was deserving of another (exaggerated) sigh from him, but he linked his pinky finger with yours anyway. “Fine. I promise.”

A small victory, but it was a step in the right direction, nonetheless. And for once, you were the smug one. “Thank you.”

♡ ♡ ♡

Saturday rolled around faster than you wanted. Funny how it always worked like that—how dreaded events always came sooner than the enjoyable ones.

You spent your Friday in the recording studio—usually one of your longer days, but even an afternoon stuck inside didn’t slow down time.

Next thing you knew, you were stiff and slumped in front of the mirror, wiggly with anxiety, as your face was poked and prodded.

“Babes, you have to stay still for me,” your makeup artist urged, her voice still as sweet as the first time she reminded you. You quietly apologized, trying not to move.

You hadn’t had a day to yourself since the after-party. And even that was a few measly hours. If you weren’t recording, then you were practicing for upcoming studio sessions—warm-ups, vocal lessons, everything. And if it wasn’t practice, then you were on tour.

This was supposed to be your downtime. Your scheduled, well-deserved downtime that you now had to spend latched to your insufferable fake boyfriend.

Eren, Eren, Eren. He was all anyone wanted to talk about these days. It was as if you lived your entire life without knowing of his existence, only to wake up one morning to discover he was the name on everyone’s tongue. You couldn’t catch a break from reality even when you shut your eyes in the makeup chair—a not-so-subtle hint you weren’t up for conversation while you were being fussed over. No, this evening’s styling team was far too invested in your love life, despite it being none of their business.

The woman finishing your makeup was so surprised to learn you and Eren were ‘an item,’ as she coined it. She gushed about it as she warmed and patted concealer on your under eyes. It didn’t help your nervous blinking.

Was this really how they’d react if you were to seriously date someone?

“Yeah. It’s—uh, it’s new-ish,” was all you could get out.

Every one of your answers was short. They didn’t seem to notice, so captivated by the sound of their own voices that they didn’t hear the nervousness in yours.

The woman styling your hair had this glint in her eye from the moment she saw you. You fixed on her smile, all teeth, in the mirror’s reflection until she confessed she was a massive Devil’s Paradise fan. She had their album cover set as the lock screen on her phone. She even showed it to you.

At some point in the conversation, she said, “I mean, you’ve seen him on stage, right? The guy’s sex on legs.”

Less of a Devil’s Paradise fan and more of an Eren Jaeger fan, wouldn’t you say?

To you, it was merely background noise—you weren’t even positive she was talking to you—but it earned her a smack on the arm from your makeup artist.

“Obviously she’s seen him on stage. That’s her boyfriend.”

She put extra emphasis on that word. The b-word.

You supposed it was rather bold of her, wasn’t it? One would think she’d have the common sense to not say that around someone’s significant other—if it were a real relationship, of course.

The truth of the matter was that you’d bet she knew more about Eren than you did. You hadn’t even seen him perform outside of the ten minutes you stumbled upon online while she had seen him live in concert (she told you twice).

It was all so stupid and weird and sort of hilarious. How your makeup artist ran to defend a relationship that didn’t exist, how your hair stylist fidgeted with embarrassment over a comment you couldn’t care less about. You almost wanted to belly laugh.

If only they knew.

The sun was almost set by the time your car parked, its orange crest melting over the tops of palms. The breeze was crisp for the first time in weeks, enough that you had tucked yourself into the corner of the backseat for warmth. Your sheer-in-all-the-right-places dress wasn’t cutting it.

Like a real couple, you and Eren arrived together. Petra, too, sat between you. She sounded just as enthusiastic as she did during your first meeting, like she believed she could magically brighten the damp mood.

There was a short walk to the venue, and the three of you were escorted there by security. Petra spent the first half of it scolding Eren because he didn’t hold the car door open for you. ‘What was I supposed to do? Someone opened it for us.’ You didn’t say it, but he had a point. Even so, that didn’t stop her.

You were beginning to think she had read one too many romance novels when you heard her whispering to Eren, her voice no greater than a hiss as she demanded him to give you his jacket. No, not just give it to you but put it on you.

This was the part where Eren would agree, and Petra would insert a collective awe from the crowd if she could.

Eren vetoed the idea immediately. He didn’t slow or look back at either of you when he said, “No way. She’s a big girl, she can handle it.”

His major attitude had you and Petra stopped dead in your tracks, both of you gasping an offended, “Eren!”

Look, it wasn’t like you wanted his jacket—the leather would clash with your outfit—but did he seriously need to act like going out of his way for you was torture?

Petra hurried to catch up with him. “Need I remind you that you have an audience?”

She was right. Outside the entrance was a swarm of cameras and phones, every one directed at whoever was locked in their crossfire next.

Eren didn’t mask his hesitancy well. It was written across his face as he forked over the jacket, unwilling to lay it over your shoulders. Out of spite, you beamed at him as though he had done it correctly. An expression so endearing that anyone looking in would undoubtedly find it sweet, but Eren knew better than that. He saw right through the facade, clicking his teeth at you before turning away.

You slung on the jacket one arm after another, and instantly, the scent of it—of Eren—made your stomach clench. You were brought back to that night. The same warm scent that tickled your nose, just without the stench of alcohol. Whatever arrogance you clung to a second ago had now slipped through your manicured fingers.

Before you stepped inside, Eren’s hand took hold of your wrist and tugged you aside. Rightfully, you were caught off guard. As you opened your mouth to ask why he thought he could manhandle you like that, he shoved a hand into his jacket’s pocket to retrieve a pack of cigarettes.

You were sure he only wanted you for the cigarettes. Even more sure that he most likely wanted you to skitter along now, but you hung around to ask, “You smoke?”

“No. I quit two years ago,” Eren answered. Then he placed a cigarette between his lips, sparking the end with a lighter he pulled from his back pocket.

“That doesn’t look like quitting two years ago.”

He took a short drag. On his exhale, he said, “Stress cigarettes don’t count.”

Stop the presses. This just in: Eren Jaeger was capable of experiencing human emotion.

Jokes aside, getting worked up over such a contrived event didn’t seem to fit the vibe he had going on. He certainly didn’t look worried, staring out at the road as he puffed his cigarette like you weren’t even there.

You swallowed the scoff you wanted to let out. He had some audacity to mock you for wanting to rehearse the other day when he was as unnerved as you.

Eren cleared his throat, and it shook you from the thought. You pointed out, “That can’t be good for your voice.”

“Good thing I could retire tomorrow if I felt like it,” he said dryly.

You couldn’t hold it in this time; you snorted derisively and handed back his jacket. “I’ll see you inside.”

Petra’s voice trailed after you as you headed inside, but you weren’t the one signing her checks, so she stayed behind with Eren. Finally, you had a moment to yourself, even if you were surrounded by hundreds of others.

The place was packed already, dolled up in retro pastels. Femininity dialed up to an eleven. Imagine the slumber party of your cotton candy dreams—glossy lips, feathery pillow fights, and bottle girls draped in silk nighties. It was gaudy, in your face, and pure camp. You didn’t expect anything less.

A hostess escorted you to your booth, toward the very back of the club. On your way, Sasha spotted you, bouncing over in her satin set and slippers. She looked adorable and perfectly on theme, down to the fluffy eyemask perched on her pony-tailed head. It was hard to hear her over the bass thrumming in your ears, but she swore she would come and find you later.

It didn’t take long to realize your lunch with Eren was nothing more than just that—lunch. Wasted time you’d never get back no matter how much you enjoyed the sushi. Outside of some photos here or there, dropping a few hints about your new single, and smushing your face with Sasha’s for that article-worthy photo-op, no one batted at you and Eren, together, even if he did stick out like a sore thumb.

“Never thought I’d be at one of these,” Eren said as he sat at your side, leaving an awkward foot of space between you.

“You’re welcome for the free exposure.”

You glanced over at him. He looked too big for the booth. It didn't help that the contrast of his deep hair—his clothes even darker, from his jacket to the toe of his boot—was stark against the white plush.

Without missing a beat, he quipped, “It’s not free if I have to follow you around all night.”

“There are worst things.” You gritted your teeth into a smile to disguise that you were throwing snide comments back and forth like daggers. “You know, like being followed around by you all night.”

“That right?” It was a challenge. You saw it in his eyes, whatever it was, and you didn’t like it. “Well, it’s a good thing you came anyway. You could use something to cover that huge zit on your forehead.”

He was boyish and crass as he said it, flustering you. You couldn’t even begin to explain how stupid he sounded—that eyeshadow wouldn’t cover a pimple—because he probably wouldn’t get it.

You slapped a hand over your blemish and hissed, “I should tell my makeup team you said that because, apparently, they’re fans of yours for some unbeknownst reason.”

You were nothing more than an irritation to him, a fly buzzing in his ear; you could sense it. “I’m going to get a drink.”

“Aren’t you going to offer to bring me one?” you cooed. It was laced with acid though you wore the same soft-eyed expression as before, when he handed you his jacket.

You reminded Eren of Connie. And he was about to blow you off just the same when a better idea popped into his head—a little something to entertain himself during this snooze fest of an evening. A reward for playing along, if you will (you wouldn’t).

What? It wasn’t his fault that it was incredibly easy to get under your skin.

“Sure,” he replied, but he didn’t leave your side. He left a lengthy pause between you, sliding closer to place a hand on your thigh. He angled closer to you, like he wanted to sell the happy couple schtick, but he had on a cat-like grin. “For a kiss on the cheek.”

You folded your arms tightly, your entire being on lock. “No.”

“C’mon. It’ll look like we’re fighting if you don’t.” He still wore that wicked smile as he pestered you with a cocked head. “Your face is scrunched up. Everyone will think you’re mad.”

That’s because I am mad. You wished you could shout it out loud, but you knew he wasn’t wrong. From the corner of your eye, through the crowds and flouncy servers, Petra was looking—no, staring—at you. She looked concerned, like she was about to race over to you, so you forced another smile. If this kept up, there was no doubt in your mind you’d leave the party with a broken tooth.

“Fine,” you agreed, but only to get him away from you. Eren’s hand was still on your leg. He grazed over the exposed skin, just once, so it didn’t qualify as a caress, but it still knotted your stomach like earlier.

You pecked his cheek. The skin under your eyes started to burn. “I’ll have a vodka soda. Two limes. Now go away.”

“Right away, angel.” He was too pleased with himself.

“Don’t call me that.”

Across the way, Petra shot you a corny double thumbs-up, as if that meant anything. You acknowledged her with another painted smile, hoping Eren could hurry up with that much-needed drink.

He hadn’t returned by the time Sasha found you, as promised. You missed the conversational crutch of having a drink in hand, but luckily, she appeared to be drunk enough for the both of you.

She took a heavy seat next to you, sitting closer than Eren dared. Her knee brushed against yours, and she spoke to you with gin-stained breath. Like everyone else, she was shocked to learn about you and Eren, and you entertained her no differently.

‘Yes, it’s new.’

‘Oh, yeah. He’s just great.’

‘Only two months, yep.’

You should have been ashamed of how little attention you offered her, but wasn’t there anything better to talk about? Really, if you had a dollar for every time someone mentioned Devil’s Paradise, you, like Eren, could retire tomorrow. Tonight, actually. So fast that you could run laps around his retirement—if you wanted to make it a competition, which you weren’t above.

But unlike the others, Sasha didn’t sound like just another fangirl. She spoke as though she knew them well, and it felt like treading water trying to keep up with her because, in reality, you knew close to nothing about these people. Any of them. Especially Jean and Connie who, as it turned out, were surprisingly good friends with Sasha. Who would have thought?

She leaned into you, real close. The type of closeness that excited you, like she was about to start a soap-box confessional.

“They’re really good guys,” she said. She said it knowingly, too. The slur in her speech disappeared; the haziness about her features faded. Suddenly, she was stone-cold sober. It felt like she was letting you in on something.

“Look, this thing—” She waved her hand flippantly, referencing the sexy babydoll (can those words be put together?) fantasy surrounding you. “It isn’t me. If it were up to me, I would have been happy to enjoy my launch from my bed, downing an entire pizza all by myself.”

You weren’t sure why she was telling you this or what she meant. But if she, like you, could see through the bullshit—

“But it’s all in good fun, right? And who doesn’t love fun?” Sasha raised her glass high, no longer whispering but slipping back to her drunk, ditzy persona. Just in time for Eren to return.

They said hello, they hugged, and then Sasha offered one last glance, like she could see straight through you—the two of you. But it wasn’t malicious; it was sympathetic.

If there truly was a bright side to this—Mikasa said there always was—then perhaps it was that you’d end up with two genuine friendships. Fingers crossed.

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#eren x reader #eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader

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