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liquorisce · 3 years ago

Text

bring your love baby (i could bring my shame)

Ao3| chap 2

pairing: eren x mikasa

rating: E / 18+

summary: With his heart broken and a ring on his finger, Eren finds himself face to face with the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. And she'll give him all the attention he wants... if he's willing to pay for it.

or: the mikasa stripper au i've been going crazy about for days.

a/n: i gotta say thx to anon on here who literally deserves their name on this fic. i love you and your encouragement.

pls keep in mind that i have no exp with stripperverse at all apart from an extremely embarrassing night in Krakow where i made a complete and utter fool of myself. that being said, this is completely self indulgent trash, so enjoy.

this entire fic is written to the tune of wicked games by the weeknd.

She slinks in through the back of the club - through the dancer's entrance.

She hears the sounds of Hange and Levi bickering about club finances and decides to ignore it; a dancer has no business talking money before the night is over.

She likes the dressing room when it's empty of the other dancers, devoid of the gossip, devoid of the talk of the big fish who emptied their wallets and their hearts, only to be transformed into dressing room talk the next day. Coming in early to the shift means not having to fight over outfits or implements or glitter and it gives her a moment to breathe and prepare for all the smiling and bending and gyrating and pleasing she has to do all evening.

Mikasa picks out a black one-piece for herself; she feels confident in black, untouchable. As she slinks into the straps, she eyes her reflection critically for a moment and then stops to dust some gold glitter on the slopes of her breasts.

A simple trick of the trade Hange had taught her when she started - it looks good under the strobe lights, and even the pink and red hues around the tables, makes the slope of her breasts look shiny and apparently that was attractive.

She's minimal with her makeup, wings on her eyes and a red lip, and eyeing herself nonchalantly, she wonders if the night might have anything remotely interesting in store for her.

…

She hears them before she sees them - the boy squad walking in from a distance. She calls them ‘boys’ because that's what they look like - nothing like the older, jaded, more single-minded men who frequent the joint. The vultures were there to greet them, but it seems at least one member amongst them knew how to navigate the jungle - the good ones worth your time were always further away, biding their time, choosing their customers wisely.

They've made themselves a good reservation, just shy of the pervert row, in one of the plush velvet sofas, with enough space to indulge in as many women as they wanted.

It simply meant that they had money, and Mikasa's eyes gleam, interested at once.

“Heading in for the kill, huh,” Pieck quips from beside her. “... I'll come with you; you wouldn't be enough for all of them.” She rolls her eyes at the brunette’s teasing. Pieck’s tone is playful, but it's the smarter choice - more girls at once always make more money, even though that doesn’t always seem obvious.

… The more personalized attention you give, the more likely you are to draw a whale.

…

“... I thought it was my bachelor party,” the blonde mutters, “... yet somehow my wishes are utterly disregarded.”

“That’s because your wishes are boring, Armin,” Connie points out diligently. “Tell me what’s so memorable about going to the same bar we always go to for a round of beers?!”

“Besides,” he says, enthusiastically clapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder, “Jeanboy here was swanky enough to hook us up with reservations in this place!”

Jean rolls his eyes, “I just googled strip clubs and called up the ones with a decent rating to make a reservation. Like any normal person…”

“Well, we’re here,” he declares, with much excitement. “... What are we waiting for?”

Armin looks to Eren as a last-ditch attempt to plead his way out of this completely regrettable decision. But he’s uncharacteristically quiet, staring blankly at the establishment they were standing in front of. “... Oh yeah,” he says, when he feels Armin’s expectant glare, “... we’re here, no harm in trying out the experience i guess?”

The truth is, Eren feels Armin's discomfort like his own, this isn't his regular kind of haunt at all, but a part of him wants to throw caution to the wind and leave reality behind.

When Jean is talking to the manager about the rules of the place, Armin asks him in a low voice, "... are you sure you're ok with this? What about Historia?"

"... she left, Armin. She finally found love," he says bitterly, because that's how he felt when he heard it from her, the way she implied it hadn't been love with him. "... surely she won't hold it against me if I waste my money on a pretty girl tonight."

If Armin notices the gold wedding band still on Eren’s ring finger, he doesn’t say anything about it.

…

They’d managed to seat themselves comfortably in a space that was much larger than just them, and Eren surmises that it makes sense if the business expectation is to accommodate some girls on their table. The menu, however, was anything but straightforward.

“W-what is a sushi-girl,” Armin sputters, sounding utterly horrified. “There’s also something called ‘Aqua girl’,” Connie adds in strange fascination, “do they have mermaids here or something?”

Before anyone could get carried away any further, Eren interjects. “... We need alcohol. Tequila, preferably.” He motions to someone he presumes is a waitress, but with the slinky satin dress she wears, no one could blame him for being wrong.

Before the alcohol arrives, someone else does and her name is - “... Peaches.” She says it with a smile, teasing, like she is well aware of how ridiculous it sounded. “... but you can call me what you like. You and I both know names are not much of a currency in this club.”

She winks at Jean in particular when she says this and he colours a hilarious shade of red, because despite his smooth maneuvering, flirting with strippers was completely unexplored territory for him as well. She’s small and petite, tan skin sheathed in long black garter stockings and heels, breasts presented alluringly in sheer lace cups. Her dark brown hair falls in long waves brushing the sides of her mounds enticingly. Eren doesn’t blame Jean for blushing.

"I heard a rumour," she suggests conspiratorially, making herself comfortable on the table in front of them, stretching elegantly and balancing her head on her elbow, "... that one of you is getting married." She pouts sexily and looks in Jean's direction. "... I sure hope it isn't you."

"... Ah, um," Armin stutters, "... It's me. I'm getting married this Sunday." He's forthcoming about this information in the hopes that the gorgeous brunette in front of him will go easy on him, seeing as he's going to be a married man in two days. But for all the smarts that Armin is known for, he doesn't calculate that in this type of establishment that rarely counts for anything.

"... Your last days of freedom," she chimes, dark brown eyes gleaming, a teasing smile on her painted lips. "... Or not. It doesn't matter, in here you'll always be free, handsome."

Eren smirks because Armin's gone pink, and as 'Peaches' crawls toward him, breasts swinging in front of him, he turns two shades redder. "So, tell me, what can I do for you before you make your vows?"

Armin's lost the ability to speak, looking somewhat terrified, and Jean and Connie look absolutely ridiculous, eyes bulging, but still saying the most idiotic things.

As much as he wants to partake in the lunacy of this experience, his mind is elsewhere (his heart hurting). He leans against the arm of the plush sofa, eyes searching for the woman who'd promised him his tequila.

There's a lot to see in this club, plenty of skin covered only by little teasing pieces of lace, satin or glitter, and stupid men who surround the pole tables devouring the women with their eyes, throwing money at the fantasy of companionship.

At least that's how Eren sees it, that's how he's always seen it, looking down on the methods of lonelier men, seeking a woman's body with desperation, even if they have to pay for it.

But that was the Eren of a happier time, a man who'd deluded himself into thinking his marriage actually meant something.

The tequila's finally here, and thank God for it, because his thoughts were not headed anywhere pleasant. He says thank you as he pays for the round, but there's a scowl on his mouth, a darkness in his deep green eyes. The stripper on the table is feeding Jean fruit now and licking the juices off her fingers.

He wants to forget, he really does, so he downs his shot of tequila, and then one other, and hopes if the pretty lady on the table won't help him forget, at least the burn in his throat will.

…

She watches from the bar sipping her gin and tonic delicately. Pieck seems to be having fun with the boys and they seem to be easy customers. They're asking the silliest things, but they seem to be laughing, which is one way to enjoy a strip club.

That is except for the one in the dark green shirt, who sits somewhat aloof, staring off into the distance, eyes searching the club for someone he probably won’t find. She recognizes that look even from this far away, she's seen it in far too many of her clients.

They're the ones who stumble into a strip club with their hearts in their hands, willing to pay but looking secretly for someone they can never have.

She prefers to stay away from the broken-hearted, but they bring good money, so she leaves her drink and makes her way to their table.

The closer she gets the more familiar it is - the pain swimming in his beautiful green eyes. For someone who spends her time reading faces, she reads him well - his casual, disinterested posture, the sleek lines of his jaw ending up in an alluring mouth that gives away his displeasure.

But displeasure of what?

Ah, she thinks, as she's close enough to watch him pay for his drink. Her eyes linger on the golden band on his long, lean ring finger, and she sighs.

…

"... Is my friend boring you?"

He startles, evidently not expecting anymore company, and turns to see a woman with striking Asian features, in a slinky, ruffled black dress and heels. He doesn't realize he's backed up until she takes up the space on the sofa arm, much closer than what he is prepared for.

"... I guess I'm not into that sort of thing," he says once he's recovered from his surprise, his eyes traveling up the length of her legs, lingering where her slit tapers, offering the slightest view to the inside of her thighs.

"Then tell me," Her eyes narrow, glancing at the credit card that he had so carelessly left on the table, "... Mr. Jäger. What did youcome here for?"

Hastily, he reaches for his card and shoves it in his wallet, eyes darting towards the gang behind him who still appear to be engrossed in the flirtatious Ms. Peaches. "... and don't use your friends as an excuse, look at me."

He finds himself listening to her, to the soft purr of her voice, looking like she asks, at the heart shaped face framed between her pixie bangs.

For a moment, just for a moment, he lets himself feel enchanted by her, by the angles of her chin, the delicacy of her red lips. But when he meets her eyes, piercing and gray, he looks away. There's knowledge in the way she looks at him, like she knows what he's thinking. And it unsettles him.

Despite the sinking feeling in the back of his mind, he challenges, "... Well, what can you offer?"

Her lips curve into the slightest hint of a smile. "Maybe we can discuss that more privately?"

She raises her leg ever so slightly, her dress allowing him a better glimpse of her thighs, his eyes lingering on the lace garter that seemingly served no purpose but to adorn the creamy skin in front of him. "... I don't have pockets, so you can put the money wherever you think it will fit."

He's embarrassed but he does his best not to show it - at the thought of going into a private room, of what happens in there, of not knowing how much he was supposed to pay her for this type of thing. But she's looking at him in that way of hers, like she knows he doesn't have a clue, almost daring him to rebuff her, so it makes him want to show her otherwise. He drags out a hundred and neatly tucks it into the black lace she offers him, fingers just barely scraping her smooth skin.

He's only ever touched one woman in his life, and he does his best not to think about it as she leads him towards the private room, not wanting to spiral down the emptiness of that thought process - it awaits him at home anyway.

It's nothing like what he's seen in the movies - there's a couch that feels comfier than it looks and a table that's large and expansive and probably definitely not used for anything that involves consumption. The lighting is dim and deliberate, and he sees why, there's no need for anything else really in this room besides her, it would be unnecessarily distracting. He eyes the Don Julio in the corner, gingerly.

"... Even the strongest men need courage sometimes," she says, amused, once again making a mockery of his self preservation. She makes herself comfortable on the table - long, lithe body stretching out in front him, porcelain legs ending in dainty heels. She folds one of them enticingly, and he appreciates the curve of her calves, leading up to her thighs, her lifted leg giving him a glimpse of lacy strings underneath. She cocks her head at him, questioningly, and when he speaks, he finds his mouth quite dry.

"So um," he avoids her eyes, because they make him self conscious, make him question things he doesn't want to question, "... are there any. um. rules?"

And if there was ever a moment where he cursed himself for stuttering in front of a beautiful girl, it was this one.

She leans on her elbows, a single strap casually slipping down her shoulder. "Only one," she purrs. "... No touching."

It's not as if he would have been bold enough, not with the way she was, like a porcelain doll, beautiful but strangely untouchable. But when she says it, it has a strange effect on him, makes him crave it, makes him wonder what it would feel like to run a hand up those legs she's so happy to tease him with.

"... And if I were to break that rule?" His voice is rough, an edge that betrays thoughts he never knew he could have.

"... At your own risk, Mr. Jäger. Every girl in this club is perfectly capable of enforcing that rule."

She says it with such casual insouciance that he's inclined to believe her. "But I don't want to hurt you."

She moves off of the table with such grace, his mind wants to replay the way her hips follow her legs, the way her breasts thrust forward ever so deliberately. His voice sounds a stranger to himself. "... Then what is it that you want to do?"

She's in front of him, turned away from him, and for the briefest moment he's allowed to admire the sight of her from behind. He's starting to understand the appeal, the shameless thrill of voyeurism that's allowed only past these doors.

Her waist is delicate, the curve of her ass pleasing to his eyes, the teasing slit emphasizing the leg that she loves to tease - and without knowing, without even the slightest anticipation, she bends forward, dropping to the floor, and lifting the back of her dress, only to shimmy tortuously slowly out of the black strings that were presumably her panties.

Suddenly it's hard for him to breathe, hard for him to think, hard for him to register anything aside from the sight in front of him, perfectly rounded ass cheeks that curve into shapely thighs, the smallest gap teasing a brief glimpse of her mound.

She steps out of it carelessly, as carelessly as she says, "... I just want to make it worth your time, Mr. Jäger," and tosses her panties towards him. It lands on the couch right beside him, and the glint in her eyes is challenging, daring him to reach for it, but he's spellbound, frozen and probably the most turned on he's ever been in his whole life.

She rests her ass on the table, sinewy legs extending alluringly as he finds himself murmuring hoarsely, "... Then surely you can do better," and slips another note in her garter.

Who was he kidding? He's straining in his pants already, too hot for this room, but his desire has become a creature of its own and it wants to play hard.

She hides her smile in her bangs, well aware of the effect she has on him, but she averts her gaze towards her body demurely, fingers tracing a fine path along her collarbone, slipping out of the feeble strap that holds her dress up. When she hears the sharp inhale of his breath, she lets them linger on the curve of her breast, and slowly, deliberately frees her right breast, pulling the dress flap low enough to reveal one pink, exquisite nipple.

He reaches for the tequila (finally) because it's the only thing he can reach for, and murmurs, "... you're so far away."

There's no point to his small complaint, because that's how it's supposed to be, that's what she'd promised him - "no touching." But as sensible as it is in theory, his hands are itching to touch her, to run his fingers across the path that she had traced along the underside of her breast, tweak her nipple between his thumb and index.

"Well, we can fix that," she murmurs sensually, closing the horrible, painful distance between them, breath hot on his ear, as she asks, "... would you like me from behind or from the front?"

He's pretty sure he's just about to combust at her words alone but somehow, he finds his voice. "... Behind," he manages, because he is pretty sure he wouldn't survive this proximity with her face to face, lips inches from his, pert breasts begging to be touched -

But if he thought the alternative would be any easier, he was wrong. She makes her home on his lap, back bare, with nothing more than two criss-cross straps and an extremely low cut right above her ass. In his heady state, he has a stray thought about how she fits so well here, hips generous, filling his hands (if only he were allowed).

He gulps down another shot because what better way to keep himself occupied as she gyrates to the music - music he hadn't even noticed until now, not until her hips started moving in time to it. She lets her dress bunch up above her waist and even though he can't see it, he can feel how her bare ass barely brushes his lap, his crotch, and if he jerks embarrassingly in response, he prays she doesn't notice.

But she does notice. "... You're so well behaved, Mr. Jäger," she purrs and if his imagination hasn't completely run away with him, he'd say she sounded like she was complaining. "... Are you not enjoying yourself?"

"Do you want me to misbehave?" It comes out harsher than he intends, unable to help himself, all he needs is the word.

"... Maybe just a little and I won't tell," she lilts, ignoring her own voice of reason and her ass brushes intentionally against his crotch, reclining her bare back against his chest and he lets himself take in her scent - sweat and jasmine and something else that makes him want to do nothing more than hold her with his hands and crush her to him.

He lets his hands settle firmly around the curve of her hips, and he groans, because the sweet, sweet pressure of her ass resting right against his dick makes him weak. His head falls into the crook of her neck, breath hot and heavy on her bare neck, and he whispers, "... Please, for the love of God, please don't stop moving."

And as she promised since the beginning, she does what he asks and makes it well worth his time. Her hands surround his, soft and small and encouraging, and he lets his fingers dig into her curves, relishing just for a moment, the warmth of a woman - this woman - and she can feel the cool metal of his wedding band digging into her skin, and she considers taunting him, considers his reaction and the honesty of his verdant eyes.

She thinks better of it, and she's glad she does, because when she cups her breasts, grinding on his cock deliberately over and over, his voice is so raw, so true as he apologizes, mumbling, "... I can't, I'm sorry," and "... You're so beautiful," pretty much in the same breath… and lets go.

His body heats up after his release, almost entirely from exhaustion (from what?) and embarrassment. He rests his forehead on her shoulder, defeated, and thoroughly overwhelmed by the emotions lurking under the surface. "... Tell me your name," he says, and it's the softest whisper.

It's a choked plea, and there's something in her heart that hurts for him, she doesn't even know why, she just remembers the way he looked on the couch, before she went to him, alone and desperately lost.

"M," she murmurs, giving him her very poorly thought out stage name that she never bothered to revisit.

He grips her hips harder, voice strained, "... Your real name, please."

She's quiet, she considers her position and his state, and hesitates before repeating, "... It's M."

"... I'll pay you," and by now he's begging, "... anything, just please tell me your real name." He's unhinged, raw and emotional, and he doesn’t even know how he got here, one minute enjoying a beautiful woman’s body and the next teetering on the edge of a dangerous spiral. She can give her stripper name all she wants, but she'll never understand that he's barely processing the fact that this is the first time he's cheated on his wife (a wife who doesn't very well care), and it's the second part that has him nearly breaking down into the neck of the stripper who just gave him a lap dance. She’ll never understand that just for this moment, he needs this to not be some cheap transaction that’s over as soon as it started.

When she feels the hint of a tear, she unwraps herself from him, and suggests, as gently as she can, because there’s a misplaced tenderness she feels towards the stranger in front of her, "... I think it's time for you to leave, Mr. Jäger."

He snaps, wet green eyes turning from sorrow to anger, mouth curling into a snarl. "So that's it... You took my money and got me off and the transaction's over." In this moment there’s only anger, irrational anger that he’s reminded of his own emptiness. That once again it was only him wanting something else, looking for something more. That be it his marriage or his liaison with a stripper, it was only him seeing something that wasn’t there.

For someone who was so delicate merely a moment ago, he towers over her now, her back flush against the wall. If Mikasa was any other woman, she would've been afraid. "... I'm afraid that's how strip clubs work, sir."

"Tell me then, M," he bites out, "... How much do I have to pay you for some goddamn intimacy?" He’s barely making sense even to himself, but he’s just pure feeling now, and he hasn’t even realized it, hasn’t realized just how long or how much he’s been craving something that he only thought he had.

This isn't the first time she's heard this. From clients, from ex boyfriends. You’re so cold, they’d tell her. She sighs… she actually had a soft spot for this one.

But her lack of a response only fuels him further. "... Or is that all you girls are good for?"

She sees it in his eyes - the hurt that's causing him to lash him out - and she's sympathetic, she really is. But this is a sore spot for her too.

"... You're just like every other entitled man who walks in here. Expecting intimacy just because you throw your bills at me." It happens so often, but for some reason she's particularly disappointed by this. She’s worked here for years now, she knows what to expect, but for some reason she thought he was different. Thought that just for this night he might actually be a client who knew how to respect her.

She gathers the underwear she'd so easily discarded and walks to the door, pausing only to look at him one last time, to take in the man with the honest eyes and heartbreak on his features. "... How do you expect intimacy from me when you paw at my body with the ghost of another woman in your eyes?"

#eremika #eremika smut #liquorisce fanfiction #mikasa ackerman #eren jaeger #bylb

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