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mononijikayu · 1 month

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cantarella — gojo satoru.

“Satoru.” you called softly, holding up the flower crown you had made. It was a simple creation, woven from a mix of daisies, buttercups, and clover. The flowers were arranged in a delicate, colorful circle, their petals still fresh and dewy from the morning sun. He looked up from his sketchpad, his expression as indifferent as ever, but a hint of curiosity sparkled in his eyes. “What’s that?” he asked, his tone more inquisitive than dismissive. You knelt beside him, holding the flower crown out. “It’s a gift for you.” you said cheerfully. “I made it just for you. I thought you might like to wear it.”

GENRE: Alternate Universe - Nobility;

WARNING/s: Angst, Not Safe For Work (NSFW), Dark Fic, Yandere! Gojo, Toxic One-Sided Romance, One-Sided Incest, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Incest, Hurt/ No Comfort, Character Death, Grief, Mention of Depression, Mention of Mourning, Depiction of Physical Touch, Depiction of Mental Anguish, Depiction of Violence, Depiction of Death, Depiction of Harm, Heavy Angst, Heavy Pining, Please Save Reader;

WORDS: 11k words.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this was inspired by this version of cantarella by kaito and miku i watched a long long time ago. i remembered about this notes i had about it while sitting and studying for uni. and i wrote it sitting down instead of reading more because inspiration came to me. i hope you enjoy it, even though its a dark fic!!! i love you all <3

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YOU WERE FREE, YOU THINK. As the heavy iron gates of the convent swung open, the world outside flooded your senses, a stark contrast to the cloistered life you’d led for years.

The scent of damp earth and blooming flowers replaced the cold, sterile air of the convent, while the distant hum of life—a world you had been shielded from—pressed in on you. Your eyes blinked against the sudden brightness, the light almost painful after so many years of darkness.

The distant memories of your parents’ tragic deaths haunted you, lingering like a dark cloud over your soul. Their faces were blurred now, softened by time but not forgotten.

The whispers of their absence were loudest in your heart, a constant reminder of the life that had been ripped away from you. Grief had been your only companion, even more than the nuns who had raised you, and now it threatened to drown you as you took your first steps into the world beyond those gates.

Now, as the newly orphaned Duchess, the title weighed heavily on your shoulders, burdened with expectations you weren’t sure you could fulfill. The responsibilities that came with it loomed over you, a shadow of the future that awaited. You had been a child when the world had last known you, but now, the world demanded more—a woman, a Duchess, a leader.

You stepped out into the open, the gravel crunching beneath your feet as the cold wind whispered through the barren trees. The carriage waited in silence, an imposing reminder of the life you were about to inherit—a life you had never asked for. The estate loomed in the distance, its shadowy silhouette framed against a darkening sky.

It was supposed to be home, a sanctuary, yet it felt nothing like it. The sprawling lands, the echoing halls, and the faceless people who would serve you—they were yours now, or so everyone insisted. But as you stood there, shivering in the twilight, you couldn't help but wonder what "yours" truly meant.

Was it the title bestowed upon you, heavy and hollow, that now defined your existence? Or was it the legacy that clung to your name, a legacy built on the sacrifices and sorrows of those who came before?

Perhaps it was the past, a mosaic of memories and losses that had shaped you, leaving cracks in your heart that would never fully heal. And now, as you faced the uncertain road ahead, you realized that your future, too, was bound by these invisible chains. A future where each step would be weighed down by duty, expectation, and the inescapable fear of the unknown.

But despite the fear gnawing at your resolve, despite the weight of the unknown pressing down on your shoulders, you knew there was no turning back. The world outside the convent walls, a world you had once seen only in fleeting dreams, had now become your reality.

A reality where your choices—or lack thereof—would define not just your life, but the lives of those who depended on you. And so, with a heart heavy with dread and determination, you took a deep breath and stepped forward. Ready or not, you had to face it.

The carriage stood before you like a silent sentinel, its dark velvet interior offering little in the way of comfort. The family crest, meticulously embossed on its side, glinted ominously in the fading light, a stark reminder of the bloodline that bound you to this life.

As you approached, the driver, a man of few words and fewer expressions, gave a brief nod, his face as unreadable as the future that awaited you. There was no comfort to be found in his gaze, only the cold efficiency of someone accustomed to serving the powerful.

Climbing into the carriage, you felt the chill of the autumn air seep into your bones, mingling with the dread that clung to your skin. The unfamiliar path ahead stretched out before you, winding through forests and fields that you barely remembered.

Every jolt of the carriage wheels against the rough terrain seemed to echo the uncertainty within you, the sense of being unmoored from everything you once knew. Yet, despite the fear that tightened your chest, a quiet resolve began to build within you. The path was dark, and the journey would be long, but it was yours to take.

As the carriage began to move, you allowed yourself one last glance at the world you were leaving behind. The convent, with its high walls and serene silence, had been a place of refuge, but it was also a cage—one that you had outgrown. The life ahead, with all its unknowns, was daunting, but it was also a chance to carve out a new destiny, one that was truly your own.

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YOU WERE FINALLY HERE. Days had passed before the carriage finally came to a halt. The endless journey had given you time to think, to imagine what awaited you, but nothing could have prepared you for the reality.

The estate loomed large and imposing before you, a testament to the power and wealth that now rested on your shoulders. But it was not the grandeur of the estate that caught your attention as you stepped down from the carriage—it was the man who stood waiting.

Gojo Satoru. Your cousin. The only family you had left.

You had heard of him in whispers and letters, the distant cousin who had managed your affairs while you grew up behind convent walls. The cousin who had wanted to raise you himself but had been overruled by those who deemed it more proper for a young duchess to be sheltered and shaped by the church. A cousin who had become a stranger over the years.

But now, standing before him, you saw just how much he had changed. He had grown handsome, undeniably so. Tall and broad-shouldered, his presence was commanding, his silver hair catching the last rays of the setting sun, giving him an almost ethereal glow.

The dark glasses he wore only added to the air of mystery, concealing his eyes and leaving you to wonder what lay behind them. His lips curled into a smile that was anything but comforting. It was a smile that promised more than a simple welcome; it promised possession.

You were drawn to him, as you had been as a child. The way he moved, the way he spoke—it was as if the world bent to his will. But now, as a woman, you saw the darkness in his gaze, the twisted hunger that had taken root in his heart over the years.

"Cousin." he murmured, his voice smooth and sickly sweet, as if every word was coated in honey, "it’s been too long."

You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself in his overwhelming presence. "It has, Satoru. I... hardly recognized you."

His smile widened, a flash of white teeth that made your heart skip a beat. "And I, you. But then, how could I recognize someone I’ve only known through letters and rumors? Yet here you are, in the flesh, finally free from those cold walls."

There was something in his tone that made you uneasy, a sharp edge beneath the politeness. "Yes, finally," you replied, your voice quieter than you intended. "Thank you for... taking care of everything while I was away. It must have been a burden."

"Burden?" He chuckled softly, the sound rich and unsettling. "Not at all, my dear. It was a pleasure, truly. I did what any family would do—protect what is ours, and ensure it would be ready for your return.”

“Then…Then, I thank you, cousin.”

Though…." he paused, his gaze lingering on you, "I must admit, I didn’t expect you to have grown into such a… lovely woman."

The way he said it made your skin prickle. There was no mistaking the intent in his words, the way his eyes, hidden though they were, seemed to strip you bare. You took a small step back, trying to reclaim some sense of control.

"I suppose we’ve both changed," you said, keeping your voice as steady as possible. "But we’re still family, Satoru. I hope we can... get to know each other again."

"Indeed," he replied, his voice dropping to a lower, more intimate tone. "Family is everything, after all. And now that you’re here, we can finally be together, as we were always meant to be."

The way he said it sent a chill down your spine. There was something more in his words, something that hinted at a deeper, more dangerous desire. You forced a smile, hoping to mask your unease. "Yes, together. It’s been so long, after all."

He stepped closer, closing the small distance you had created. "Too long, cousin. But now that you’re back, I intend to make up for all the lost time. You and I… we have so much to catch up on."

The finality in his tone left little room for argument, and as he offered his arm to lead you inside, you had no choice but to take it, feeling the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his sleeve. His grip was firm, almost possessive, as he guided you through the grand doors of the estate that would now be your home.

But as you crossed the threshold, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were stepping into something far more dangerous than you had ever imagined. And that the cousin who walked beside you was not just your protector, but something far darker, something you were not sure you could escape.

The estate he led you to was vast, cold, and eerily silent. Each step echoed through the corridors, the sound bouncing off the stone walls that seemed to close in on you with every passing moment. It was a place meant to impress, to awe with its sheer size and grandeur, but all it inspired in you was a deep sense of unease. The shadows seemed longer here, the light dimmer, as if the house itself had secrets it was unwilling to reveal.

Gojo’s hand hovered just above your lower back, never quite touching, but close enough to make you acutely aware of his presence. It was a silent assertion of control, a reminder that he was guiding you, that you were under his protection—or perhaps his possession. The gesture felt more like a threat than a comfort, his proximity sending a shiver down your spine.

As you walked, you noticed the servants—silent, spectral figures who moved quickly to avoid your gaze. Their eyes darted away whenever they saw the two of you, averted as if they knew something you did not, as if they feared something you were only beginning to sense. They kept their distance, and when they spoke, it was in hushed tones, their whispers carried away by the drafty corridors, lost in the vastness of the estate.

The grand halls, adorned with portraits of ancestors long gone, felt more like a mausoleum than a home. The faces in the paintings seemed to watch you with disapproval, their cold eyes following your every move, judging you, questioning your right to be here.

The air was thick with history, but it was a history that felt oppressive, as though the very stones of the house were weighed down by the sins and secrets of those who had lived here before.

Gojo’s voice broke the silence, low and almost conspiratorial. “It’s been a long time since these halls have seen life,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of something unspoken. “I’m afraid the estate has grown as cold as its master in your absence.”

You forced a smile, trying to shake off the unease that clung to you like a second skin. “It’s... it’s very grand,” you replied, struggling to find the right words. “I suppose it will take some getting used to.”

He chuckled softly, the sound devoid of real warmth. “Grand, yes. But it is a lonely place, cousin. One grows accustomed to the silence, to the emptiness, but I’ve always thought it would be different with you here.”

The way he said it made your skin crawl. There was something too intimate in his words, something that suggested his desire for you went far beyond familial affection. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, but his expression was unreadable behind those dark glasses, his lips curled into that same unsettling smile.

“You’ve taken such good care of everything,” you said, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground. “I’m grateful, truly. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

His smile widened, but there was no joy in it, only something dark and possessive. “There’s no need for repayment,” he murmured, his voice dipping into a more dangerous register. “You’re here now, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted. We’re family, after all.”

Family. The word echoed in your mind, but it felt hollow, like a cage closing in around you. The estate, the title, the wealth—it was all yours, but at what cost? And as Gojo led you deeper into the heart of the mansion, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being led into something far darker, something that would be much harder to escape.

At last, you reached what appeared to be a sitting room, the heavy doors creaking as Gojo pushed them open. The room was dimly lit, a fire crackling weakly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the walls. The furniture was old but well-kept, the upholstery dark and rich, but it did little to warm the cold atmosphere of the room.

“This will be your sanctuary,” Gojo said, guiding you inside. “A place to rest, to think, to remember that this is your home now.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words. As you looked around, the reality of your situation began to sink in. This was your home, your life now. But the estate that should have been a sanctuary felt more like a prison, and the man who should have been your protector felt more like a captor.

“I’ll leave you to get settled, cousin.” Gojo said, finally stepping back, though his presence lingered in the room long after he had left. “But don’t be a stranger, cousin. We have much to discuss, and I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

As the door closed behind him, the silence of the room enveloped you, cold and suffocating. You were alone now, but the shadow of Gojo’s presence lingered, and you knew that this was only the beginning.

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YOU WERE THE CENTER OF THE WORLD. Or at least that’s what Satoru had said when he told you that society celebrated your return with much joy. A ball was to take place in your honor, a grand affair meant to celebrate your return to the echelons of noble society.

The thought of it filled you with a mix of excitement and dread. After years of isolation, the idea of stepping into a room filled with the most powerful and influential members of the ton was daunting. You could already hear the whispers, feel the weight of their expectations.

Your reflection in the mirror stared back at you, a stranger dressed in silks and jewels. The gown you wore was exquisite, a deep sapphire that brought out the color of your eyes, the neckline adorned with pearls that once belonged to your mother. But despite the finery, you couldn’t help but feel exposed, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t since leaving the convent.

A soft knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts, and before you could respond, Satoru entered the room. He moved with an easy grace, his presence commanding and almost overwhelming. Dressed in a tailored black suit that accentuated his broad shoulders and tall frame, he was every bit the image of a duke, a man who could have anything and anyone he desired.

His eyes, hidden behind those dark glasses, seemed to pierce through you as he approached. “Nervous, cousin?” he asked, his voice smooth and laced with amusement.

You tried to smile, but it felt forced. But you could not help it, to be this nervous. To feel like you were going to vomit and find yourself in fright. This was your social debut, after being far away from your kind for so long.

“A little.” you admitted, your hands twisting together in your lap. “I haven’t been to a ball since I was a child. I don’t even know how to behave anymore.”

Satoru’s smile was gentle, but there was that ever-present edge to it, a darkness that lingered just beneath the surface. He stepped closer, taking one of your hands in his. His touch was warm, firm, and it steadied you, even as your heart raced beneath your chest.

“Don’t be.” he murmured, lifting your hand to his lips. He pressed a kiss to the back of it, the gesture both tender and possessive. “None can rival your beauty, or your existence. You will be the brightest star in the room tonight, and they will all fall at your feet.”

The way he spoke sent a shiver down your spine. His words were meant to reassure you, but there was something almost predatory in them, as if he was not merely presenting you to society, but staking his claim on you before them all.

“I just… I want to make a good impression.” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I am a duchess of the realm. I must do well. For our family."

“You will, cousin. Do not worry much.” Satoru replied, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “But remember, you have nothing to prove to them. You are the Duchess, the true heir to this estate. They should be the ones worrying about impressing you.”

You looked up at him, searching his face for any sign of doubt, but all you saw was confidence, a certainty that made you feel both comforted and trapped. There was no escaping the life you had returned to, and Satoru was a constant reminder of that.

“I’m here, by your side,” he continued, his voice a low, soothing murmur. “No one will dare speak ill of you. Not with me watching over you.”

His words wrapped around you like a protective veil, and despite the unease that still lingered, you felt a flicker of hope. Perhaps this night wouldn’t be as terrifying as you feared. Perhaps, with Satoru by your side, you could navigate the treacherous waters of noble society.

“Thank you,” you said softly, your fingers curling slightly around his as you let yourself lean into his presence, if only for a moment.

“Think nothing of it,” he replied, his smile growing wider, more possessive. “Tonight is just the beginning. And I’ll make sure they all know that you belong to me.”

With that, he offered you his arm, guiding you out of the room and toward the grand hall where the ball was to take place. The music had already started, the sound of violins and piano filling the air with an elegant melody.

As you stepped into the room, all eyes turned to you, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. You could feel the weight of their gazes, the scrutiny, the admiration. But Satoru’s hand on yours was a constant anchor, a reminder that no matter what, you were not alone.

And as the night unfolded, with dance after dance, with whispered conversations and stolen glances, you realized that Satoru’s words had not been an empty promise. You were indeed the brightest star in the room, and every person who approached you did so with a mix of awe and reverence. But beneath it all, you could feel the shadow of Satoru’s presence, always there, always watching.

And though you smiled and played your part, there was a part of you that wondered just how deep that shadow, and how much of yourself you would lose to the man who claimed to protect you.

As the evening progressed and the ballroom filled with the sounds of laughter and music, the time for dancing arrived. You had been introduced to countless faces, each more eager than the last to make a connection with the newly returned Duchess. But all the introductions and small talk had left you feeling exhausted, your nerves frayed by the constant attention.

Then, as if sensing your unease, a man approached you. He was tall, with a calm demeanor that immediately set him apart from the others. His hair was blond, neatly combed, and his sharp features were softened by the warm, sincere expression on his face. He bowed gracefully before you, his eyes meeting yours with a quiet intensity that made your breath catch.

"Your Grace," he said, his voice steady and kind, "may I have the honor of this dance?"

You hesitated for only a moment before placing your hand in his, feeling a sense of relief wash over you. There was something about him—something genuine, something safe—that made you feel at ease in a way you hadn’t all night.

"Of course," you replied, allowing him to lead you to the center of the dance floor.

The music swelled as the two of you began to dance, moving in perfect harmony with the waltz. Unlike the others who had tried to impress you with their skills or status, this man—Count Nanami Kento, as you had been told—was different.

He was careful with you, his touch gentle as he guided you through the steps. His eyes never left yours, and in them, you saw not the hunger or ambition you had grown accustomed to, but something else entirely—kindness, understanding, and a quiet admiration that made your heart flutter.

With each turn, each graceful movement across the polished floor, the weight of the world seemed to lift from your shoulders. The laughter and chatter of the ballroom, once so overwhelming, now faded into a distant hum, a backdrop to the moment unfolding between you and Nanami.

The lights softened, the grand chandeliers casting a warm glow over the sea of dancers, yet all you could focus on was the man guiding you effortlessly through the crowd. His touch was gentle yet firm, his presence steady, grounding you in the here and now.

As you glided together, Nanami spoke in a voice so soft it felt like a secret shared between the two of you. He asked about your life, your thoughts, your dreams—questions that were simple, yet carried a depth that surprised you.

His gaze never wavered, and the way he listened made you feel as if every word you spoke was of utmost importance. There was no rush, no need to impress; just a quiet, sincere interest that drew you in.

Nanami was a world apart from the overwhelming force of Satoru, who often swept into your life like a whirlwind, leaving you breathless and off-kilter. Satoru’s presence was impossible to ignore, a vibrant, chaotic energy that demanded attention.

But here, with Nanami, everything was different. His calmness soothed the edges of your anxiety, his steady demeanor a balm to the storm that often raged within you. There was a reliability to him, a sense of safety that you hadn’t realized you craved until this very moment.

You found yourself drawn to him in ways you hadn’t anticipated. It wasn’t just the contrast to Satoru’s intensity, though that was part of it. There was something about Nanami’s quiet strength, his thoughtful nature, that spoke to a deeper part of you.

As you danced, the rest of the world seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of you in a cocoon of shared understanding and unspoken connection. It was unexpected, this pull you felt toward him, yet it was undeniable.

Your graceful dance continued and little by little, you allowed yourself to get lost in the rhythm, in the soft cadence of his voice, in the comforting warmth of his presence. The worries that had plagued you moments before melted away, replaced by a sense of peace that was rare and precious.

In that fleeting moment, it felt as though time had slowed, and all that mattered was the steady beat of your hearts moving in sync, the unspoken promise of something more that lingered in the air between you.

As the dance came to an end, he held you a moment longer than necessary, his hand lingering on yours. His eyes, warm and sincere, held yours, and you felt a rush of something you hadn’t felt in years—something like hope, like the promise of something good. When he finally released you, he bowed again, his voice low and sincere.

"Thank you, Your Grace," he said softly. "It was truly a pleasure."

The words were simple, but the sincerity in them made your heart swell. You offered him a genuine smile, the first you had felt all night. "The pleasure was mine, Count Nanami."

As he stepped back into the crowd, you found yourself watching him go, your heart still racing from the unexpected connection. There was a warmth in your chest, a sense of peace that you hadn’t felt since you’d arrived at the estate. By the end of the night, you couldn’t deny it—you had fallen for him, the quiet, steady count who had treated you with such care.

But then, as you turned your gaze away from where Nanami had disappeared into the crowd, your eyes were drawn to a figure standing in the shadows at the edge of the ballroom. Satoru. His dark glasses glinted in the low light, but you could feel the intensity of his gaze, piercing through the distance between you. His expression was unreadable, his lips curved into a faint smile that sent a chill down your spine.

You knew that he had seen everything—the way you had smiled at Nanami, the way your guard had dropped in his presence. Satoru’s eyes bore into you, and the warmth that had filled you moments before was replaced by a cold dread.

No matter how much comfort you found in Nanami’s gaze, you couldn’t escape the shadow that Satoru cast over your life. And as the night drew to a close, you realized with a sinking heart that the feelings you had developed tonight would not go unnoticed or unchallenged.

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IT WAS OBVIOUS, THAT YOU WERE SMITTEN. In the weeks following the ball, the once overwhelming silence of the estate became bearable, softened by the anticipation of receiving each new letter from Count Nanami Kento.

The grand halls, with their cold marble floors and towering ceilings, no longer felt as lonely when you held his carefully penned words in your hands. His letters arrived with a sense of regularity, as if he knew precisely when you needed them most, each one a lifeline connecting you to something warmer, more genuine.

As you unfolded the delicate parchment, the world outside your window seemed to fade away. His handwriting, neat and precise, reflected the man himself—thoughtful, deliberate, with each word chosen with care.

His letters were not just a form of polite correspondence; they were conversations, deep and meaningful, where his interest in your life and well-being shone through. He asked about the small details, the little things that most overlooked, making you feel seen in a way you had not experienced before.

Nanami’s words were a balm to your troubled heart, each sentence carrying a sense of calm and reassurance that eased the tension that often gripped you in the estate’s oppressive atmosphere.

His kindness wasn’t ostentatious or overwhelming, but quiet and steady, like a gentle stream that slowly erodes the hardest stone. Through his letters, he offered you a refuge, a place where you could express your thoughts and feelings without fear of judgment or dismissal.

As the weeks passed, you found yourself eagerly awaiting each new letter, cherishing the moments when you could escape into the world he created with his words. His thoughts and feelings were laid bare, revealing a depth of emotion and understanding that resonated with you on a level you hadn’t expected. In a place where everything felt rigid and predetermined, his letters brought warmth and a sense of possibility, reminding you that there was more to life than the cold formality that surrounded you.

In his words, you felt understood and valued in a way that was rare and precious. The letters became a bridge between your two worlds, drawing you closer to him with each exchange. What had started as a simple correspondence had grown into something more, something that brought light into the darkest corners of your life.

And as you carefully folded each letter and tucked it away, you couldn’t help but feel that this connection with Nanami was something special, something that had the power to change everything.

However, not everyone was pleased with this growing connection. One evening, as you sat in the dimly lit parlor, absorbed in the latest letter from Nanami, the quiet solitude was suddenly disrupted by the sound of footsteps.

You looked up to see Satoru standing in the doorway, his presence filling the room with a tension that hadn’t been there moments before. His usual carefree demeanor was nowhere to be found; instead, his expression was stern, his blue eyes darkened with something you couldn’t quite place.

Satoru had been quieter than usual lately, his playful banter and easy smiles replaced by an uncharacteristic stillness. The change in his demeanor was subtle at first, but now, as he stood before you, the weight of it was undeniable.

His normally relaxed posture was rigid, his shoulders squared as if he were bracing himself for a confrontation. The way his eyes narrowed as they flicked to the letter in your hands sent a chill down your spine, making your stomach tighten with unease.

He didn’t say anything at first, but the silence between you was heavy, charged with unspoken words. You could feel his gaze, intense and searching, as if he were trying to unravel the connection you had been so carefully building with Nanami through your letters. The air in the room seemed to thicken, the warmth of Nanami’s words in your mind now clashing with the coldness radiating from Satoru.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and controlled, but there was an edge to it that made your heart skip a beat. “You’ve been spending a lot of time writing letters.” he remarked, his tone betraying the undercurrent of disapproval he was trying to mask. The implication was clear, though he didn’t directly mention Nanami’s name.

You felt a surge of defensiveness rise within you, but it was tempered by the confusion and hurt that came with seeing Satoru like this. The man who had always been a whirlwind of energy and confidence now stood before you, guarded and almost vulnerable in his own way. The tension between the two of you crackled in the air, a silent battle of wills as you both struggled with what was left unsaid.

Satoru’s gaze bore into yours, and for a moment, it felt as if the world had shrunk to just the two of you in that room, locked in a standoff where neither wanted to be the first to back down. The letter in your hands, once a source of comfort, now felt like a weight, a reminder of the widening chasm between you and the man who had always been a constant in your life.

“And I have heard from whispers, dearest cousin. You’ve been spending a lot of time with count Nanami.” Satoru remarked, his voice edged with an irritation that was difficult to ignore. “I see he’s become quite the confidant.”

You looked up from the letter, surprised by the sudden shift in his tone. “He’s been kind to me, Satoru. He’s welcomed me back into the ton with kindness.” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “We’ve exchanged letters, but it’s just a way to stay connected, to find some comfort in this unfamiliar world.”

Satoru’s smile was thin and cold. “You’re aware, I’m sure, that count Nanami’s intentions aren’t as noble as they seem. He’s a man of ambition, just as any man is and you’re merely a means for him to elevate his own status. He’s using you, and yet you seem to take his words to heart.”

The accusation stung, and you felt a surge of defensiveness rise within you. “That’s not fair, Satoru. Count Nanami has always been genuine with me. He’s been nothing but respectful and kind. I don’t believe he’s using me for his own gain.”

Satoru’s expression hardened, his gaze growing colder. “You’re naïve if you think he has no ulterior motives. He may seem kind now, but he’s a count—an ambitious one at that. He sees an opportunity in you, and it’s only a matter of time before he tries to exploit it.”

“I don’t think you understand him at all.” you said, your voice rising with frustration. “Nanami is not like that. He cares about me, and I care about him. Why can’t you accept that?”

Satoru’s eyes flashed with anger, the dark glasses doing little to mask his irritation. “Careful, cousin. It’s one thing to indulge in a fleeting fancy, but it’s another to be so blinded by it that you risk your own position and safety. I’m only trying to protect you.”

“Protect me from what?” you demanded, rising from your seat. “From finding someone who treats me with respect and kindness? Nanami is not a threat—he’s a friend, someone who has shown me a different side of life.”

Satoru stepped closer, his demeanor imposing. “A friend who will inevitably use you to further his own ambitions. I’ve seen this game before, and it’s not one you want to be a part of. If you can’t see that, then I’ll have to make you understand.”

The tension in the room was palpable, and you could feel the walls closing in as Satoru’s anger boiled over. His words were like daggers, each one aimed at driving a wedge between you and Nanami. But despite the fear and the rising sense of dread, you stood firm.

“I won’t let you dictate who I can and cannot befriend,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. “Nanami is more than his title, and if you can’t see that, then perhaps it’s you who doesn’t understand what’s truly important.”

Satoru’s face darkened, and for a moment, the room was filled with a tense silence. The air was heavy with unspoken words, with the weight of conflicting loyalties and emotions. Finally, he turned on his heel, his frustration evident in his stride.

“Do as you wish, cousin.” he said coldly. “But remember, I warned you. And if you find yourself disappointed, don’t come seeking my sympathy.”

With that, he left the room, the door slamming shut behind him. You stood there, heart racing, the echoes of his harsh words still ringing in your ears. The letter from Nanami lay on the table, a reminder of the solace and understanding you had found in him. Despite Satoru’s anger and warnings, you knew that you couldn’t turn away from the connection you had begun to cherish.

The world outside the estate might be filled with ambition and deceit, but in Nanami’s letters, you had found a glimpse of something real—something worth holding onto, no matter the cost.

A few weeks later, as the seasons shifted and the public gardens came alive with the colors of spring, you found yourself meeting Nanami Kento in a secluded corner of the park. The air was crisp, filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the gentle hum of bees. The vibrant landscape provided a stark contrast to the somber confines of the estate, and as you walked along the winding paths, your heart felt lighter, freed from the constraints of your daily life.

Nanami awaited you beneath a canopy of flowering trees, their petals drifting down like confetti around him. His eyes lit up with warmth as he saw you approach, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of you. He offered you a soft smile, his gaze filled with a tenderness that made your heart flutter.

“Your grace,” he said, taking your hand in his as you reached him. His touch was gentle, and he guided you to a nearby bench, where you both sat, the blooming flowers forming a natural backdrop to your intimate conversation.

“It’s so beautiful here,” you remarked, looking around at the garden’s vibrant colors.

“It is, my lady.” Nanami agreed, but his attention was solely on you. He reached for your other hand, holding both of them on his own. “But not as beautiful as you.”

The sincerity in his voice made your cheeks flush, and you glanced down, unable to hide the smile that curved your lips. “You always know how to make me feel special.”

Nanami took a deep breath, his gaze locking onto yours with a seriousness that made your heart race. “There’s something I need to tell you, my lady. I hope I may be so prude as to ask you for your kindness.”

You smiled at him tenderly. “I give you leave, my lord. You need not ask my permission.”

“I….I must be honest with you, my lady.” he began, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “From the moment we first danced together, I knew that you were someone extraordinary. Over the weeks, as we’ve exchanged letters and shared our thoughts, my feelings have only deepened.”

He paused, his fingers tightening around yours. “I am in love with you, more than I’ve ever thought possible. And I intend to marry you, if you’ll have me.”

The words hung in the air, their weight both exhilarating and overwhelming. You stared at him, the truth of his confession sinking in. The garden, the flowers, the world seemed to fall away as you looked into his eyes, seeing the depth of his affection reflected back at you.

“Yes, my lord.” you said breathlessly, your voice filled with emotion. “Yes, I will marry you. I’ve been waiting for someone who sees me for who I am, and who makes me feel truly alive. I can’t imagine my life without you.”

Nanami’s eyes softened, and a relieved, joyful smile spread across his face. He pulled you gently into his arms, holding you close as he whispered, “You’ve made me the happiest man in the world.”

You nestled against him, feeling the warmth of his embrace and the promise of a future together. The garden around you seemed to celebrate with you, the flowers blooming even more brightly, the air filled with a sweet, intoxicating scent. For the first time since your return to the estate, you felt a sense of genuine happiness and hope.

As you looked up at Nanami, the man who had shown you a different side of the world, you knew that this was the beginning of a new chapter—one filled with love, joy, and the promise of a future where you could finally be yourself.

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

YOU HAD NEVER BEEN HAPPIER. The news of your engagement to Nanami Kento spread like wildfire, and by the time of the next grand ball, it was the talk of every guest in the room. The ballroom, usually filled with the hum of polite conversation and the clinking of glasses, was now charged with an air of curiosity and excitement.

Everywhere you looked, people were whispering behind gloved hands, their eyes alight with speculation about the upcoming union between the Duchess and the influential Count. The event, ostensibly a celebration of the merging of two prominent families, felt more like a stage for the spectacle of your new life—a life that had changed so swiftly, it sometimes felt as if you were watching it unfold from a distance.

As you moved through the room, graciously accepting congratulations and well-wishes, you couldn’t help but notice the eyes that followed your every move. Some gazes were filled with admiration, others with envy or curiosity, but all of them were fixated on you, the woman at the center of this momentous occasion.

The weight of their expectations settled on your shoulders, making the air feel heavier, the music louder, the lights brighter. Despite the celebratory atmosphere, a part of you felt detached, as if this wasn’t your life at all, but a role you were playing in a story written by someone else.

Amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces and forced smiles, your eyes were drawn to one figure that stood out from the rest. Satoru. He was present at the ball, his imposing figure a stark contrast to the lively crowd around him.

He cut an imposing figure in his formal attire, his white hair catching the light as he moved with the grace of someone who had long been accustomed to being the center of attention.

Yet, tonight, there was a distance about him, a coldness that had not been there before. He was surrounded by admirers and well-wishers, as always, but even in the midst of the crowd, he remained aloof, his eyes scanning the room as if searching for something—or someone—he could not find.

Your heart ached as you watched him, the memory of your last confrontation still fresh in your mind. The distance between you had grown wider in the weeks since then, an unspoken tension hanging between you like a storm cloud that refused to break.

You longed to mend things, to reach out and bridge the chasm that had formed between you and your cousin, but every time you caught his eye, he looked away, his expression unreadable.

The ball continued around you, the music swelling, the dancers twirling, but your thoughts were with Satoru. The joy that should have accompanied your engagement was tainted by the unresolved tension between you, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that something precious was slipping through your fingers. Nanami’s presence beside you was steady, his hand warm on yours, but it was Satoru’s absence—his emotional distance—that gnawed at your heart.

As the night wore on, you found yourself searching for moments when you could catch Satoru’s gaze, hoping to see some sign that he was still the cousin you had grown up with, the one who had always been by your side.

But each time, he remained distant, his walls firmly in place. The chasm between you seemed insurmountable, and as the ball continued, the realization that you might never bridge that gap settled heavily within you.

Yet, despite the ache in your chest, you knew that this night was a turning point, a moment that would define the course of your future. The ball was not just a celebration of your engagement; it was the beginning of a new chapter in your life.

But as you danced with Nanami, his presence comforting and reassuring, your thoughts kept drifting back to Satoru, the one person who should have been standing by your side, sharing in your happiness. Instead, he stood apart, a distant figure on the fringes of your new life, and the pain of that realization was almost more than you could bear.

With a deep breath and a determination to confront the situation, you made your way across the ballroom toward Satoru. The crowd parted slightly, and his gaze met yours as you approached, his dark glasses hiding his true emotions but his posture unmistakably stiff.

“Satoru, dearest cousin.” you began, your voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. I’m sorry for how things went the last time we spoke. I didn’t mean to defy you or hurt you.”

He regarded you for a moment, and then his expression softened slightly, though he remained guarded. “I’m sorry too, my lovely cousin.” he said, his voice low and sincere. “I let my frustrations get the better of me. It wasn’t fair to you. I only wanted what I thought was best.”

Before you could respond, Nanami approached, his presence a calming contrast to the tension between you and Satoru. He offered a warm smile to both of you and extended a hand in greeting. Nanami then shifts his face, looking towards your own cousin.

“Is everything alright?” Nanami asked, his tone gentle and concerned.

Satoru glanced at Nanami, then back at you, and after a brief pause, he nodded. “Yes, everything is fine, my lord. I was just about to make a toast in honor of the engagement.”

He signaled to the servants, who quickly moved to bring in bottles of wine and glasses. The murmur of the crowd grew as they sensed something significant was about to happen.

With a gracious nod, Satoru raised his glass, and the room fell into expectant silence. His gaze shifted between you and Nanami, and though he spoke with his usual composure, there was a sincerity in his tone that was hard to ignore.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my gracious lords and ladies.” Satoru began, his voice carrying through the ballroom. “Tonight, we celebrate not only the union of two distinguished families but also the beginning of a new chapter in the lives of these two wonderful people. To my cousin, the duchess, and to my lord count Nanami Kento, I offer my heartfelt congratulations.”

He turned to you and Nanami, his smile warm but tinged with an underlying complexity. “May your life together be filled with happiness and prosperity. May you find joy and support in one another through all the challenges and triumphs that lie ahead.”

The room erupted in applause, a cascade of sound that seemed to envelop you from all sides. The clinking of glasses followed, a symphony of celebration that filled the grand hall, yet in the midst of it all, your heart was racing with a blend of emotions you could barely contain.

Relief washed over you like a cool breeze, cutting through the tension that had been knotted in your chest for what felt like an eternity. The applause wasn’t just for the announcement of your engagement—it was for the moment of reconciliation that had just played out before everyone’s eyes.

Satoru’s gesture, though unexpected, had sent a ripple through the gathered guests. His choice to stand and raise his glass in a toast, his expression carefully composed but unmistakably sincere, was more than just a public acknowledgment of your engagement.

It was a sign—a signal that he was willing to accept your choice, even if it pained him to do so. For so long, the distance between you had been a source of quiet anguish, an unspoken rift that neither of you had known how to bridge. But in that moment, with everyone watching, Satoru had taken the first step toward closing that gap, and the weight of that gesture settled over you with a mix of gratitude and sadness.

You felt Nanami’s hand tighten around yours, the warmth of his touch grounding you amidst the swirl of emotions. When you looked up at him, his expression was calm, yet there was a depth in his eyes that spoke of an unspoken understanding.

He didn’t need to ask what you were feeling; he knew. He had always known. Nanami’s quiet strength, the steadiness that had drawn you to him in the first place, was your anchor in this moment. His support was unwavering, his presence a silent promise that he would stand by you through whatever came next.

The applause continued, but the world around you seemed to blur, the faces and voices fading into the background as you focused on the two men who meant the most to you—one by your side, offering you a future, and the other across the room, finally offering you his acceptance. There was a bittersweet quality to the moment, a recognition that while you were stepping into a new life with Nanami, something else was being left behind.

As you smiled and nodded in response to the well-wishes of the guests, the gratitude you felt wasn’t just for the applause or the approval of those around you. It was for the unexpected turn of events that had allowed a measure of peace to be restored between you and Satoru, even if things would never be quite the same as they once were.

The mix of relief and gratitude in your heart was tinged with a quiet resolve—to honor the connections that had brought you to this point and to move forward with grace, knowing that you were not alone in this journey.

In that moment, with Nanami’s hand in yours and Satoru’s gaze finally softened by acceptance, you allowed yourself to breathe, to feel the weight of the past lift just enough to let you take the next step forward. The path ahead was still uncertain, but with Nanami by your side and the lingering warmth of Satoru’s gesture in your heart, you felt ready to face whatever lay ahead.

“Thank you, Satoru." you said softly, raising your own glass in acknowledgment. “Your words mean a great deal to us.”

Satoru inclined his head slightly, acknowledging your gratitude, and then turned to mingle with other guests, leaving you and Nanami to share a moment of quiet reflection.

The evening continued with renewed energy, and as you danced with Nanami, you felt a sense of peace, knowing that despite the challenges, you were surrounded by people who cared for you and were willing to bridge the gaps that had formed.

As the night continued, the ball's festivities seemed to intensify, with guests dancing and chatting in high spirits. But amidst the celebration, you noticed that Nanami appeared increasingly pale and uncomfortable. His hand, which had been warm and reassuring in yours, grew cold, and he occasionally grimaced, as if battling an unseen pain.

Concerned, you guided him to a quieter corner of the ballroom, away from the crowd. “Kento, my love.....are you alright?” you asked, your voice filled with worry.

He tried to smile, but the effort was clearly painful. “It’s nothing, my darling.” he said, though his voice was strained. “I’ve just been feeling a bit unwell lately. It’s probably nothing.”

You helped him to a nearby chair, your hands trembling as you guided him down. But as soon as he sat, you noticed something terribly wrong. His face contorted with discomfort, his brows knitting together as a pained gasp escaped his lips.

His breathing grew shallow and labored, each breath a struggle that sent a jolt of fear through you. His hand moved to clutch his stomach, his fingers digging into the fabric of his coat as if trying to ward off an invisible agony. His skin glistened with sweat, and his once calm and steady demeanor was replaced by something raw and unsettling.

Before you could even react, his body suddenly slumped, going limp in the chair. The color drained from his face, his eyes fluttering shut as if the strength had been completely sapped from him. Panic surged through you like a bolt of lightning, your heart racing as you dropped to your knees beside him. “Kento!” you cried, your voice thick with fear, hands shaking as you desperately tried to rouse him. But he didn’t respond—his eyes remained closed, his body frighteningly still.

Frantically, you called out for help, your voice breaking as terror gripped you. The noise of the ballroom, once lively with chatter and laughter, fell into a stunned silence. The sudden shift in the atmosphere was palpable, as if the entire room had collectively held its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

Satoru was among the first to arrive, his tall figure cutting through the crowd with an urgency that matched your own. His usual easygoing demeanor was nowhere to be seen; instead, his expression shifted from confusion to alarm as he took in the scene before him. His gaze darted between you and Nanami, the gravity of the situation sinking in as he knelt beside you, his own hands hovering over Nanami’s still form, unsure of what to do.

A doctor, who had been attending the event, quickly rushed over, pushing through the gathering crowd with a determined expression. You watched in desperate anticipation as the doctor knelt on Nanami’s other side, his fingers moving quickly to check for a pulse, to feel for any sign of life. His face grew increasingly grave as the seconds ticked by, his lips pressing into a thin line.

The minutes dragged on, each one feeling like an eternity as the doctor worked, his movements precise yet tinged with a growing sense of urgency. The room’s tension mirrored the heartache building within you, a crushing weight that threatened to overwhelm you. Every second that passed without a sign of improvement, every quiet murmur from the doctor that you couldn’t quite hear, only deepened the pit of dread in your stomach.

The once festive atmosphere of the ball had been completely shattered, replaced by a chilling silence that seemed to echo your worst fears. The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving only the cold, terrifying reality that the man you loved was slipping away, and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

Finally, the doctor straightened, his expression sorrowful. “I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can do, your grace.” he said quietly. “Count Nanami is dead.”

The words struck you like a physical blow, leaving you momentarily paralyzed as their meaning sank in. It was as if the ground beneath your feet had been pulled out from under you, and you were left to freefall into a void of disbelief and despair.

You stared at Nanami’s lifeless form, his face pale and still, the strong and steady man you had known reduced to this fragile, unresponsive shell. It didn’t seem real—couldn’t be real. The vibrant world around you blurred, the colors bleeding into one another as your vision wavered. The music that had once filled the ballroom, the laughter that had echoed off the walls, now seemed like a distant, haunting memory from another life.

The sounds around you dulled, as if you were underwater, the cacophony of voices and gasps of disbelief fading into a muffled, indistinct hum. The air felt thick, suffocating, as if it were pressing down on your chest, making it difficult to breathe.

The reality of the situation was too much to comprehend, too overwhelming to process. Nanami, who had been so full of life just moments ago, was now gone. The finality of it was like a weight crushing your heart, and you felt as if you were being dragged into a darkness from which there was no escape.

Satoru placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, a gesture meant to offer solace, but it only deepened the emptiness that had settled in your chest. His touch, usually so warm and reassuring, felt hollow and distant, as if even he couldn’t bridge the chasm that had opened up between the life you had known and the unbearable reality you now faced.

You didn’t look up at him, couldn’t bear to see the reflection of your own grief in his eyes. Instead, you remained fixated on Nanami, your mind desperately trying to reject the truth, to find some way to undo what had just happened.

The guests, who had been caught up in the joy and excitement of the evening, were now stunned into silence. Their expressions of shock and somber concern mirrored the confusion and heartache you felt. The whispers began to spread through the room, a low murmur that grew in intensity as people tried to make sense of the tragedy that had unfolded before them.

The once celebratory atmosphere had been shattered, replaced by a palpable sense of unease and sorrow. The collective joy that had filled the ballroom had evaporated, leaving behind only the cold, stark reality of loss.

As you stood there, your mind spinning and your heart breaking, the world around you continued to move forward, indifferent to the pain you were experiencing. The echoes of the music and laughter that had once filled the room now seemed like cruel reminders of a happiness that had been irrevocably taken from you.

The life you had imagined with Nanami Kento, the future you had so carefully envisioned, was gone in an instant, leaving you adrift in a sea of grief and uncertainty. Nothing was left behind.

You clutched Nanami’s hand, tears streaming down your face. “No, cousin....I....I cannot....” you whispered to him. “This can’t be happening. He was just here. We were about to start our life together.”

Satoru’s voice was gentle but firm. “We need to get you out of here, you cannot stay here.” he said, guiding you away from the scene with a sense of urgency. “Come with me.”

As you were led out of the ballroom, your mind was a whirlwind of grief and disbelief. The promise of a future with Nanami had been abruptly stolen from you, leaving you with nothing but the crushing weight of loss. The vibrant night that had once held so much promise now felt like a cruel mockery, its joy eclipsed by the shadow of tragedy.

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

YOU COULD NOT COPE WELL. Months had passed since Nanami’s tragic death, and despite the time that had elapsed, the ache in your heart remained as fresh as ever. The estate, once filled with the excitement of the engagement and the promise of a future, now seemed like a silent, mournful shell. Each day felt like an endless repetition of grief, with memories of Nanami lingering painfully in every corner.

Satoru, your cousin and now your closest family, had tried to coax you back to some semblance of normalcy. He encouraged you to attend social events, to engage with the world beyond the estate’s walls. But each time, you found yourself unable to muster the strength or the will. The world outside felt alien and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the warmth and hope you had once known with Nanami.

One evening, after yet another failed attempt to persuade you to join him for a dinner gathering, Satoru’s patience finally wore thin. His frustration, masked for so long, burst forth in an outburst that left you reeling.

“Why can’t you just move on?” he demanded, his voice sharp. “It’s been months. You can’t spend the rest of your life hiding away in this grief-stricken state.”

The words stung, and you felt a surge of anger and sadness collide within you. “You don’t understand,” you cried, tears streaming down your face. “You didn’t lose him. You don’t know what it’s like to have everything ripped away like that.”

Satoru’s expression softened, a flicker of regret in his eyes as he saw the depth of your pain. The harshness in his voice faded as he approached you, his demeanor shifting to one of concern and gentleness.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice now filled with an earnestness that cut through the earlier anger. “I didn’t mean to be so harsh. I’ve been trying to help, but I know I can’t truly understand your pain.”

He reached out, gently taking your hand and guiding you to a nearby armchair. His touch was soothing, a stark contrast to the emotional turmoil you were feeling. “Let me help you,” he said softly, kneeling beside you. “I know this is hard, but you don’t have to go through it alone.”

Satoru’s presence was a grounding force, his usual aloofness replaced by a sincere attempt to offer comfort. He poured a drink from a decanter on a nearby table, holding it out to you with a reassuring smile. “Here,” he said, “a little something to help calm your nerves.”

You accepted the drink, your hands trembling slightly. As you took a sip, the warmth of the liquor began to ease the tight knot of grief in your chest. Satoru settled beside you, his presence a steady anchor in the storm of your emotions.

He placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, the gesture tender and supportive. “I know it’s not the same as having Nanami here,” he said quietly, “but I’m here for you. We can get through this together, even if it takes time.”

You leaned into him, finding solace in his steady presence. The tears continued to flow, but amidst the sorrow, there was a small flicker of hope—hope that perhaps, with time and the support of those who cared for you, the heavy burden of grief might one day become a little lighter.

Satoru stayed with you, his hand resting gently on your back as you cried. In that moment, his support and understanding offered a sliver of comfort, a reminder that even in the depths of loss, there could be moments of compassion and connection.

The truth began to unravel slowly, almost imperceptibly. You had been grieving, struggling to find any semblance of normalcy, and trying to rebuild a life that seemed forever altered by Nanami’s death. Satoru, in his way, had been both a source of comfort and a persistent presence, urging you toward recovery. His support, once reassuring, began to feel increasingly intrusive, as though his concern masked something darker.

One evening, as you were going through some old letters and personal effects, a hidden compartment in one of Nanami’s personal belongings caught your attention. Inside, you found a stack of letters and documents that seemed out of place. As you sifted through them, a particular letter stood out—a letter from Nanami to you, written shortly before his death. Its contents were cryptic and filled with a sense of unease that made your heart race.

The letter spoke of suspicions of being watched, of a growing sense of danger, and a mention of a mysterious figure who had been lingering in the shadows. That evil forces were coming, investigated by the Crown. That he was a blue shadow, a dark shadow. You put the letter down, your chest tightening.

The pieces of the puzzle began to click together in your mind, and a chilling realization dawned on you. Satoru, he...he was called the Queen's Blue Ghost. That was what he does for the Crown. You bit the lower edges of your lip. You could feel your legs losing strength as you grabbed the table to balance yourself.

You shake your head, almost as though you were in denial. It can't be. Your cousin....He would not. He promised, that he would always be good to you. To everyone. He, he can't be.

Desperate for answers, you confronted Satoru, your heart pounding with a mix of fear and anger. You cornered him in his private study, your voice trembling as you demanded the truth. He raised his head and smiled at you. But quickly, that retreated the moment he saw that look on your face.

"Cousin, is something wrong? Dearest one, you are agitated. You must—"

“Satoru, please.” you said, trying to keep your composure. “I require your honesty. Please. I need to know the truth."

"Whatever about? I have always been honest with you."

"Not on everything. And you know this. I know this."

"Dearest cousin, calm down—"

"What really happened to Nanami Kento? About the others. How many? How many others did you hurt?"

Satoru’s face, usually so controlled, betrayed a flicker of something dark and unsettling. He stepped closer to you, his eyes gleaming with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. The moment you said his name, the moment it all snapped. You could feel your heart pound as he corners you, traps you, in his vicinity. You swallow the bile down your throat.

“The truth, you say?” he replied, his voice smooth but laced with a dangerous edge. “I’m afraid you might not like it, cousin. I fear I might upset you. And....that is out of the question."

You took a step back, the fear overwhelming you. “What did you do? I know you had something to do with it. Did you poison him?”

A cold smile spread across Satoru’s lips. “You’ve been more perceptive than I gave you credit for,” he said softly. “Yes, I was responsible. But it was all for you, my dear cousin.”

The words struck you like a blow. “For me? What are you talking about?”

Satoru’s gaze softened, but the malice beneath it was unmistakable. “I’ve always been in love with you. Even when we were children, I was captivated by you. Everything I did, every action I took, was driven by my desire to have you for myself. And I do not care, how many suffers for it. That lowly count, those pesky tattletales. I do not care, cousin. As long as I have you. ”

The enormity of his confession hit you with a force that left you reeling. “You killed my Kento… just to have me? Do you....do you know how derange that is? How could you? How could you do this to me?”

He stepped closer, his voice a whisper that was both chilling and intimate. “No one else could ever be right for you but me. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else taking you away from me. Nanami was an obstacle, and I removed him to clear the path for us.”

Horrified and desperate, you tried to flee, but Satoru’s reflexes were swift. He grabbed your arm with a strength that was both frightening and unyielding. You struggled against him, but his grip only tightened as he pulled you close. Your heart pounded, and tears streamed down your face as you realized the extent of his obsession.

“Let me go!” you cried, your voice breaking with desperation. “I can’t be with you. Not after this.”

Satoru held you tightly, his arms encircling you in a possessive embrace. “No,” he said firmly, his voice unyielding. “You belong with me. I’ve waited too long for this moment, and I won’t let anyone—least of all you—deny what’s meant to be.”

His words, though tender in their own twisted way, were laced with a darkness that left you feeling trapped and helpless. You could see the unshakable resolve in his eyes, the certainty that he was the only one who could provide the life he believed you deserved.

“I did it all for you, dearest one.” Satoru continued, his tone a mix of reverence and obsession. “Everything I did, every sacrifice, was to ensure that we could be together. You’ll see, in time, that no one else can care for you the way I do.”

It was as though for a moment, your memories echoed. That boy Satoru was, the distant and aloof boy you had looked up to, chased after — he was not there anymore. All that’s left is a monster. A monster who believed that loving you meant hurting you. Tears fell as you remember the boy he was.

The large, sunlit gardens were a backdrop to a series of memories, each one highlighting the contrast between your vibrant, spirited nature and Satoru’s reserved, emotionless disposition.

You were only six years old when you first encountered Satoru’s indifference. He was sitting alone in a secluded corner of the garden, surrounded by books and sketches, seemingly lost in a world of his own. His silver hair gleamed in the sunlight, but his eyes, hidden behind dark glasses even then, were as cold and distant as the surrounding shadows.

Despite his aloofness, you were determined to reach out to him. You approached him with a bright smile, holding a daisy you had picked from the garden. “Satoru,” you called out, “would you like to play with me?”

He glanced up briefly, his expression unreadable. “I’m busy,” he replied curtly, his voice lacking warmth.

Undeterred, you sat down next to him, placing the daisy on his sketchpad. “But it’s such a nice day! Don’t you want to come outside and enjoy it?”

He stared at the daisy, then at you, a flicker of something—perhaps curiosity or irritation—crossing his face. “I don’t see the point in playing,” he said, turning his attention back to his sketches.

You persisted, your enthusiasm unwavering. “It’s not just about playing. It’s about having fun and being together. We can make up a story about the garden and pretend we’re explorers!”

“I don’t want to.” He whispered.

You pout. “But that’s no fun!”

As a young girl, you were determined to break through Satoru’s emotional barriers. One sunny afternoon in the grand estate’s garden, you devised a simple, yet heartfelt plan. You had spent the morning picking a variety of wildflowers, their vibrant colors brightening your small wicker basket. You were excited to surprise Satoru, who was once again immersed in his books and sketches in his usual secluded spot.

The garden was alive with the hum of bees and the soft rustling of leaves, and the sunlight filtered through the trees, casting playful shadows on the ground. You spotted Satoru sitting against a large oak tree, his focus intensely fixed on his work. With a smile, you approached him quietly, careful not to disturb his concentration.

“Satoru,” you called softly, holding up the flower crown you had made. It was a simple creation, woven from a mix of daisies, buttercups, and clover. The flowers were arranged in a delicate, colorful circle, their petals still fresh and dewy from the morning sun.

He looked up from his sketchpad, his expression as indifferent as ever, but a hint of curiosity sparkled in his eyes. “What’s that?” he asked, his tone more inquisitive than dismissive.

You knelt beside him, holding the flower crown out. “It’s a gift for you.” you said cheerfully. “I made it just for you. I thought you might like to wear it.”

Satoru’s usual aloofness seemed to falter as he took in the sight of the flower crown. There was a brief flicker of surprise in his eyes, a momentary break in his emotional armor. He looked at the crown, then back at you, clearly unsure of how to react.

Without waiting for his response, you gently placed the flower crown on his head, adjusting it carefully so that it sat comfortably. Your fingers brushed against his hair, and you beamed at him with an innocent, genuine smile.

“There!” you said, stepping back to admire your handiwork. “Now you have a crown fit for a king.”

Satoru’s initial reaction was one of shock, his mouth slightly agape as he touched the delicate flowers with hesitant fingers. The corners of his mouth twitched, and for a brief moment, you saw a rare, genuine smile break through his usually stoic expression. It was a fleeting, but unmistakable, expression of delight.

He looked up at you, his eyes softer than they had ever been. “You made this for me?” he asked, his voice betraying a hint of warmth that was seldom present.

“Yes, cousin!” you replied, your eyes sparkling with happiness. “I wanted to do something nice for you. I thought it might brighten your day.”

Satoru’s gaze lingered on you, and you could see the conflicted emotions playing across his face. The flower crown, so simple and yet so heartfelt, seemed to have touched him in a way you hadn’t anticipated. He looked away, his expression growing contemplative.

“It’s… nice.” he said quietly, a hint of genuine appreciation in his tone. “Thank you.”

You smiled, pleased with his reaction. “I’m glad you like it, cousin!” you said, reaching out to gently touch the crown. “I hope it makes you smile.”

As you walked away, you felt a sense of accomplishment. You had managed to break through Satoru’s emotional wall, if only for a moment, and the sight of him wearing the flower crown was a memory you would cherish. Little did you know that this simple act of kindness would become a significant, albeit bittersweet, part of your lives.

The contrast between the boy who had once been so distant and the man who now held you captive was stark and painful. The memories of your childhood—the times you had tried so hard to reach out to him, to bridge the gap that had always seemed to exist between you—now echoed in your mind like a cruel mockery.

Those moments, once filled with innocent hope and longing, now served as a haunting reminder of how drastically things had deteriorated. The boy who had seemed unreachable, who you had thought might one day come around, had instead grown into someone who was both terrifyingly close and dangerously unrecognizable.

As you struggled in his arms, the harsh reality of your situation became all too clear. Satoru’s love, which had once been a source of warmth and comfort, had twisted into something dark and all-consuming. The affection that had once made you feel safe was now a prison, its walls closing in around you with every passing second.

The realization that his love had warped into an obsession sent chills down your spine, and the fear that gripped your heart was unlike anything you had ever known. You had always known Satoru was different, that there was something in him that set him apart, but never had you imagined that his feelings for you could turn into something so possessive, so terrifying.

His grip on you was unrelenting, his arms a cage that you knew you could not break free from. No matter how hard you struggled, how desperately you tried to push him away, his hold only tightened. There was no trace of the gentle boy you had known in his eyes now—only the cold, determined gaze of a man who would not be denied.

As he held you close, you could feel the weight of his obsession pressing down on you, suffocating you with its intensity. The warmth that had once drawn you to him had been replaced by a chilling darkness, and the love that had once been your sanctuary had become the source of your greatest fear.

A profound sense of betrayal and loss settled over you, heavy and unyielding. The man who had once been your closest confidant, your protector, had now become the architect of your greatest sorrow.

The trust you had placed in him, the bond you had thought unbreakable, had been shattered beyond repair. The future you had dreamed of, filled with hope and happiness, was now overshadowed by the bleak reality of his possessive love.

In that moment, as you were held captive in his arms, you understood with a heartbreaking clarity that the Satoru you had known was gone, replaced by someone you could no longer recognize.

The boy who had once been distant, yet filled with potential, had become a man whose love had turned into a dark obsession, and the life you had once envisioned was now lost to the shadows of his twisted affection.

“I waited so long for this day, to have you free from the nuns, from the watchful eyes of the church, from anyone who would keep you from me." He whispered. “And I had to deal with that pest, that lowly pathetic count. All of those who wanted to steal you from me!”

The air in the room thickened as he stepped closer, his breath brushing against your skin. You knew what he wanted, what he had always wanted. It was written in the way he looked at you, the way his fingers twitched as if resisting the urge to reach out and claim you right then and there.

But you were no longer a child, no longer the naive girl who would blindly follow where he led. You were a Duchess now, with power of your own, and you would not be so easily consumed by the flames of his obsession.

Yet, as his hand finally found its way to your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze, you couldn’t help but feel the pull. The twisted, sick desire that mirrored his own, the yearning to give in to the darkness that had always lurked beneath the surface of your soul.

"You will be mine, cousin." Gojo whispered, his lips hovering above yours. "Whether you like it or not."

You were drawn to him, as you had been as a child. The way he moved, the way he spoke—it He reached for you, his hands rough yet strangely tender as they cupped your face, his grip firm and unyielding.

Before you could react, his lips crashed against yours with a force that stole your breath. You struggled, tried to push him away, but he was stronger—much stronger. Your fists pounded weakly against his chest, a futile attempt to break free from the iron hold he had on you.

Tears welled up in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks as you felt the helplessness of the situation, the weight of his obsession bearing down on you. But even as your mind screamed in protest, there was a part of you that responded to his touch, a dark, twisted part that had long been buried beneath years of repression.

His hands roamed over your body with a fervor that mirrored the storm brewing inside you, fingers tracing the curves of your form as if memorizing every inch. He pulled you closer, his embrace tightening until there was no space left between your bodies, the heat of his desire searing through your clothes, igniting a fire deep within you.

You hated yourself for the way your body betrayed you, for the way your heart raced not only with fear but with a sick anticipation. You could feel the hunger in his touch, the same hunger that had lurked within you, hidden and denied for so long.

Gojo’s lips trailed down your neck, leaving a burning path in their wake, his breath hot against your skin. His words were a whispered promise, laced with a dark possessiveness that sent shivers down your spine.

"You can’t escape me, cousin." he murmured against your throat, his voice thick with desire. "I’ve waited too long, dreamed of this moment for too many nights. You’re mine now, and I’ll never let you go."

His hands slipped beneath the fabric of your dress, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin beneath as he explored with an urgency that left no room for doubt. You gasped, the sound caught between a sob and something else, something far more dangerous.

As his touch grew bolder, you realized with a sickening clarity that no matter how hard you fought, no matter how many tears you shed, you were losing yourself to him. The line between love and hate, between desire and fear, blurred until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

Gojo pulled back just enough to look into your tear-streaked face, his eyes darkened with a twisted satisfaction. His thumb brushed away the tears that still fell, a cruel smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Don’t cry, my dearest." he whispered, his voice laced with mockery and something softer, something almost tender. "You’ll learn to love this, to love me, just as I’ve always loved you."

And as his lips claimed yours once more, the last vestiges of your resistance crumbled, swallowed whole by the darkness that he had nurtured within you, until all that was left was the Duchess who belonged to the Duke—no matter the cost.

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whatsnewalycat · 1 year

Text

Psychomanteum / Chapter 12

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC Louella (2nd POV)

Chapter 12: Ghost in the Machine

Chapter Summary: You and Dieter go on a date while grappling with the past, present, and future.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 8.7k+

Content / Warnings: alternating pov, insecurities, mirror, angst, fluff, acting career things idk, awkward/nervous speech patterns, cocaine use, past infidelity, suspicion, dissociation, argument, abuse mention

Notes: Chapter title from "Ghost in the Machine" by SZA featuring Phoebe Bridgers. Howdy! If you want the taglist, or AO3 link, head on down to the masterlist. If you want a link to the spotify playlist for this chapter, let me know and I'll send it to ya.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Every window in the house sits ajar, welcoming a warm cross-breeze that tickles your skin. It carries an earthy scent from further up the hill, giving faint whiffs of sage and dirt.

Dieter moseys around the house in his boxers, voyaging between his kitchen sink and potted plants, watering can in hand. He mumbles sweet little affirmations to his green dependents, checking in with each in a hushed voice, saying shit like, “Now, how are we doing here? Thirsty?” or “Looking great today,” or “Wow, someone needs a haircut.”

From your place nestled into the couch, you alternate between watching him and studying the white wisps of steam that swirl off the surface of your coffee cup.

This morning, while peaceful, has you feeling off-kilter. Your mind keeps wandering to the interview with DIRT. To your mom. To Dieter.

Overnight, the dust began to settle in your mind, providing more clarity. Details started to surface shortly after you woke. Things you heard yesterday, but didn’t understand or deem important in the moment.

Like David’s statement: “Dieter has had a lot of big changes in his personal life this past year as well, with his divorce to Anika, and the scandals surrounding it.”

Like your mother saying: “He had a problem with drugs, you know, big problem, had other women, too,“ and, “I know he has a cocaine habit, and that he cheated on his wife, does that sound like anyone else?”

Like Dieter saying: “No, I definitely deserved that.”

In each still, calm moment, they replay. Every time you look at Dieter and your heart aches with love and adoration, your memory blindsides you with this information.

Is your mom right? Did he cheat on Anika?

Or is she just trying to drive a wedge between you?

Wouldn’t he have told you when he had the chance?

You know you could do a web search to look into it, do your own research into the matter. Hell, you could even just fucking ask him. But the prospect makes you itch.

Because what if she’s wrong and he thinks you don’t trust him? Or, worse, what if she’s right?

Fuck, what if she’s right?

Your blood starts to buzz hot and rapid through your veins. You look around for an escape hatch and see a bookshelf, then set your coffee cup down to approach it.

Among knickknacks and a few small plants housed on the solid oak shelves, you find titles you expect to see, like 1984 by George Orwell, The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann, and at least a dozen art reference books. You also find a few things you weren’t expecting, like Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy, half a dozen Julia Quinn novels, and, most importantly, a first edition of Betty Crocker’s Picture Cook Book.

You pull the cookbook out and examine it, running your fingertips along the frayed corners of the faded red hardcover, then flip it open, asking, “Why do you have this?”

Dieter looks up from an unruly Monstera, “Have what?”

“This cookbook,” you answer, padding across the living room’s black and white striped rug to show him.

He frowns as you hold it up, shaking his head, “Must’ve been Annie’s. She left some stuff behind when she moved out.”

“My grandma had this one,” you murmur, glancing up at him, “Is—is it ok if I look through it?”

He scoffs and shrugs, “Not like she’s coming to get it,” then returns his attention to the Monstera.

You settle into the couch, thumbing through the yellowed pages, reading recipes, tips, and instructions compiled for housewives of the 1950’s. Dieter finishes grooming his plants and plops down at your side, curling an arm around your shoulders, “Betty giving you any inspiration?”

“Fun fact: Betty Crocker isn’t an actual person,” you smirk, turn the page to the section on custard pies, and inform him, “In the 1920’s, a flour company noticed they got a lot of homemakers requesting baking advice, so they adopted the moniker Betty Crocker as a pen name for the people who answered the questions.”

“Huh,” he blinks, “Interesting.”

“Listen to this,” you flip to a dog-eared page towards the back of the book and start reading from it, “If you’re tired from overwork, house chores you’re bound to shirk, read these pointers tried and true, and discover what to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Tips for housewives who are fucking miserable,” you tell him, then read another excerpt, “Get outdoors every day. Take a walk, do some gardening, take the children for an outing, or pay your neighbor a short visit,” and another, “Harbor pleasant thoughts while working. It will make every task lighter and pleasanter. Notice humorous and interesting incidents to relate at dinnertime, etc.”

“Jesus,” he mutters.

You want to tell him that the page was bookmarked. Its connection to the spine, well-creased. Referenced often. The comment lingers at the back of your throat.

When you backtrack your place in the book, trying to resume your study on custard pies, a white index card slides from between two pages.

“Oh,” you pluck it out and furrow your brow at the ingredients, measurements, instructions printed in a precise script, “It’s a recipe for banitsa. You ever had this?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s like a flaky cheese pastry… phyllo, feta, yogurt,” you murmur, then glance up at him, “What do we have going on today?”

“Reservations at 7, and Darlene’s gonna stop by later, but other than that,” he grins and shakes his head, “Nada.”

So, the two of you smoke a joint on the patio while Lincoln picks up the called-for ingredients Dieter doesn’t have on hand. After Lincoln drops them off, you sanitize the sun-drenched quartz of Dieter’s kitchen countertop, all sparkling rainbows in the light. Dieter spreads a paint-splattered drop cloth across the no-man’s land between the dining room and kitchen, sets up an easel, equips it with a canvas, then rolls a little yellow file cabinet out next to it.

He puts on a mix of music described as roller-rink 1978. As the funky tunes play over the sound system wired throughout his house, you attach a bread hook to his matte black stand mixer and sift bread flour into its 7-qt bowl.

Then you go to work.

You concentrate on the task at hand in each given moment, taking it step-by-step. Measuring, mixing, and kneading. Trying not to think too long about the romance novels lining the bookshelf, or the recipe’s delicate handwriting, or the dog-eared page, or Dieter’s baited breath after he recounted why he and Anika split, or your mother saying, “I know he has a cocaine habit, and that he cheated on his wife, does that sound like anyone else?” Or David Alterman asking, “Do you worry that those patterns are bound to repeat themselves?”

Instead of these things, you try your hardest to occupy your hazy, pot-laced brain by separating the dough into equal pieces while humming along to ABBA and Elton John and Electric Light Orchestra.

When the recipe calls for the dough to rest for an hour, you clean your workspace, throw together the banitsa filling, and wash the dishes.

Then the timer tells you: seventeen minutes left.

You turn your attention to Dieter. His bare feet move fluid from side-to-side, paintbrush flitting between the palette and canvas as he lip-syncs along to “Hollywood Swinging” by Kool & The Gang. A grin stretches across your face.

They cannot be right about him. This is not the kind of man who has affairs. No fucking way. This man is an angel.

I’ve been fooled before.

You banish the thought with a quick shake of your head, then try to distract yourself by asking, “Do you still see ghosts?”

He looks up at you, then back at his work-in-progress with a shrug, “I don’t usually see them per se, it’s more like a, uhh… an understanding. Or a knowing, I guess. Like a picture in my head with a feeling attached to it.”

His features twitch animatedly as he talks, accenting his words, dark eyes glancing between the canvas and your face.

“It’s like… have you ever had intrusive thoughts?”

“Have I ever,” you snort.

“It’s like that,” he explains, “Like a flash of something. Not like that kid in the Sixth Sense, seeing them fuckin’ uhh… walking around and shit.”

You hop up onto the kitchen counter and inquire, “Where’s the most haunted place you’ve been?”

Dieter pauses mid-brushstroke and scrunches his face up as he thinks about this, resuming when he says, “Well, hotels are always the worst. They’re so transitive, you know, all this energy coming and going constantly. And the people stuck there… they usually went intending to have a good time, a vacation or party or whatever, and something happened to them. That, or… they went in with an intention not to come out and succeeded.”

The implication unfolds in your brain, and you nod.

“Either way they seem to have unfinished business,” he shrugs and squints at the canvas, smudging paint with his thumb, “Usually they’re harmless, so it’s pretty easy to ignore,” he pauses here, clears his throat, then continues, “But in terms of the worst vibes I got, like, uhh… how scared it made me feel, it was definitely Ethan.”

Blood drains from your face and extremities, leaving you cold and dizzy.

“I—I thought—wait, really?”

He squints up at the ceiling, like he’s re-evaluating his statement, then levels his eyes with yours with a nod, “Yeah. At first, at least. Like the first night I was there, I felt him and it was,” he furrows his brow and drops his gaze to the floor, “Dark. Really fucking dark. And I was already in a bad way, y’know, I went to your place straight from the airport and you were—”

“A fucking disaster?”

“A beautiful trainwreck,” he corrects with a persuasive smile. It falters as soon as he continues, “And I just had this big fight with Annie about the divorce and, uhh, stuff, and hadn’t used blow in a day or two, just… not great,” he swallows, then shakes his head, “I think maybe… he could sense that about me. It was a warning. I remember knowing that’s what it was.”

“Oh,” you breathe. Look down at your hands. Start picking at your cuticles.

“It was hard to stay. So… I left.”

“I didn’t think it was that bad. I’m sorry. I mean, he told me that he liked you—”

“It got better, really, love. It’s fine,” he assures you, then frowns, “Wait, he told you he likes me? Did you ask him about me or something?”

“Well, yeah,” you drop your gaze to the floor, “I just wanted to—I don’t know, see if he approved, I guess.”

His head jerks back and he blinks, “Oh.”

“Yeah—he, um, told me that he always liked you,” you tilt your head at your dangling legs and chuckle, “Told me you were a triangle guy.”

Dieter lets out a light puff of laughter.

“He asked if you make me happy,” you tell him, so quiet it’s almost a whisper, then look up to study his reaction.

He pulls his paintbrush from the canvas and stares at you, his eyes soft and searching, “And?”

A soft scoff flees your lips, and you say, “Of course you do, Dee.”

“Yeah?”

This crooked smile spreads across his face and makes your heart ache.

“Obviously,” you chuckle, grinning in return.

Dieter seems to think about this, pink tongue rolling along his bottom lip as his eyebrow quirks. He sets his palette down on the little yellow file cabinet, drops his paintbrush into a cup of water, then crosses the room towards you.

The way he looks at you seems to take a physical presence on your skin, making you shiver before he even reaches you. When he does, his hands slide up your bare legs, fingertips dipping under the hem of your jean shorts. His hips nudge your knees apart.

You hook your arms around his neck as he tugs you closer, brushing his nose against yours, “You make me happy, too.”

He kisses you, gentle for only a moment before your tongues meet.

It’s so soft and wet it makes you gasp. A rumble sounds from his throat and his grip tightens. You arch your back, balling his shirt in your fist

He guides your hand to the bulge in his sweatpants, “Do you feel that? How happy you make me?”

“That’s pretty fucking happy,” you grin, wrapping your fingers around his girth, over the soft fabric. You start to work him and he tosses his head back with a moan.

Your lips meet his again, finding depth. It’s a slow heat, the way you take your time with his cock in your grip and your tongue in his mouth. Drives him crazy. His breaths carry strained groans that tickle your throat and make your cunt throb.

When you roll your thumb against the damp spot in his sweatpants, he gasps, “Fuck–”

You hook a finger under his waistband, “I wanna see it.”

“Oh yeah?” he chuckles, pausing to drag his tongue against yours, earning a whimper from you, then says, “Any time, any place, he’s all yours, baby.”

And right when he starts to pull down his pants, the front door swings open.

You both jump and look towards the noise.

In walks Darlene, cell phone pinched between her ear and shoulder, talking to someone on the other line, “Yeah, I just got to Dieter’s house, I’m going to tell him—Yeah, I will—Ok. Ok.”

Dieter rearranges himself and meets your eyes, murmuring, “To be continued,” before turning to approach her.

“Yep, bye,” she tosses her phone in her designer bag and sighs, looking between the two of you, “Did I interrupt something?”

Your mouth gapes open. You shake your head and hop down off the counter, “We, um–we–”

Dieter cuts in, thank fucking god, responding, “No. What's the news?”

Darlene raises an eyebrow at him, then you. She leans back against the dining room table and crosses her arms, “Well, I raised hell at DIRT. David Alterman is on disciplinary leave. The interview will be published without the phone call tomorrow. So… we will see what happens.”

“Oh, that’s good!” you grin, glancing at the back of Dieter’s head, then to Darlene, “Thank you so much. And—and I’m sorry, you know, you had to deal with that.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Darlene nods, flashing you a wane smile, then looks to Dieter, “Can I steal you for a sec? I have to talk to you about something.”

He clears his throat and nods, “Yeah,” then follows her outside.

You release a little chuckle and smile to yourself.

The timer goes off.

Dieter slides the door closed behind him, following Darlene around the centerpiece of his patio: a sprawling oak tree. He looks up into it as he trails behind, admiring all the twisted innards of the beast. When they step out of its shade and into the hot afternoon sun, he grimaces.

She plugs a cigarette between her lips and lights it, asking him on the exhale, “What was that about?”

“Nothing,” he takes a step forward and leans against the steel railing, peaking over the edge to look down the cliffside.

“How’s she doing since yesterday? That was a fucking mess,” Darlene leans on the railing beside him.

Dieter scrunches his nose up, shrugging, “Kind of hard to read, I guess. She seems fine. But–but I don’t know, she’s just,” he pauses here and frowns, “I think I would be freaking out if I were her, you know? But she’s not? And I don’t know what to do about that.”

She flicks her cigarette and raises her eyebrows, then sighs, “Actually, Dieter, that’s what I wanted to talk about with you.”

“About what? Lua? What about her?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you serious about this girl?”

“Jesus Christ, Darlene,” he groans, dropping his head, “Yes, I’m fucking serious. I wouldn’t be doing all this bullshit for just anyone.”

“It just seems like there’s a lot you haven’t figured out. Maybe some things you haven’t discussed,” she takes a drag and looks him up and down, “What if I got some intel that says she’s still selling drugs?”

He plays along, inquiring, “What kind of drugs?”

“Edibles. Pot brownies, shit like that.”

“I’d say your intel is bunk. She’s straight.”

“Well, I looked into it,” she blows a plume of blue smoke out into the canyon, “She has no online presence, no license, sells out of her apartment—I mean, it fucking reeks, Dieter. How’s she able to make enough to live in that area with no marketing?”

“She doesn’t make a huge profit. I mean, this month I helped her with rent—”

“You’re fucking kidding me. So she’s using you—”

“No, she’s not. I had to beg her to let me help. It’s not like that,” he maintains, shaking his head, “I mean, who’s your source? Why are you even looking into this?”

“I don’t trust her, Dieter! Something isn’t right, it’s not adding up.”

He pushes off the railing and pushes non-existent sleeves up his forearms, “Let’s say you’re right, and she’s selling edibles,” he stops for a beat, then scoffs, “Who fucking cares? Fucking pot brownies? Who gives a shit.”

“Movie studios care. The public cares. Doesn’t matter if it’s crack or pot, she’s a fucking drug dealer.”

“She’s not a fucking drug dealer, Darlene,” he snaps.

She stares at him. Takes a drag off her cigarette.

He kneads his neck, shifting his weight from one foot, to the other, before throwing his hands out in exasperation, “I need you to just believe that, for once, someone loves me and is good for me. Please.”

Darlene’s lips purse, “That’s what you said about Anika.”

“That—that’s different,” Dieter drops his gaze to the ground.

“Is it, though?” she blinks at him, “You swore that was it, that she wasn’t a gold digger, and yet… now she’s ex-Mrs. Dieter Bravo. Walked away with almost half your estate in return for not selling your secrets. She’s a rich woman now.”

“Yep,” Dieter sighs, skidding his toes against the mahogany deckboards, “I’m just a big fuck up, you got me there.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” she asserts, “I just want you to really think about this before doing anything… rash.”

“I’m not going to run away and fucking marry her the first chance I get, ok?” he sneers, “Just—chill the fuck out.”

“Dieter, let me be perfectly honest with you,” she drops her cigarette and crushes it with the toe of her beige pump, “I worry it’s more than you just being cunt-struck again.”

His head jerks back and he scoffs.

She lowers her voice to a pleading tone, “Look, you’re falling headfirst into a serious relationship with this girl, she used to deal drugs, there’s all this shady stuff with her business, and… I just—I worry, are you, you know… are you ok?”

“Am I ok?” he repeats the question, drenching it with incredulity, “What the fuck do you mean, am I ok?”

She studies his face, crossing her arms. A meaningful tilt of her head tells him everything he needs to know.

His jaw gnashes from side-to-side and he shakes his head, “I’ve been clean for months, Darlene, because of her.”

“Alright,” she raises her eyebrows and blinks, “Good.”

“Do you believe me?”

Darlene shrugs, “If you say you’re ok, you’re ok.”

Bullshit.

“I am,” he confirms, his voice firm and final.

“Great,” she nods, then pulls out her phone and looks at the screen, “Alright, well, I’ll keep an eye on things after the interview drops and let you know how it goes.”

She stomps past him, the click-clack of her heels echoing out behind her, and exits out the side gate.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, shaking his hands out at his sides, rolling his neck as he starts towards the glass patio door.

Dieter walks beside you as the hostess leads the way through the busy restaurant. Everything around him is white noise. It doesn’t matter at all.

All that exists is his palm on the small of your back. His whole universe has boiled down to you, right now, draped in this white, flowing chiffon dress that Kelly picked out for tonight. You, all starry-eyed and dolled up, gawking at your surroundings because you’re just so damn excited to be at another fancy-schmancy restaurant.

Earlier today, while wrapped up in his sheets, you told him all about the menu, and haute cuisine, and French culinary history, and Escoffier. He closed his eyes and held your warm body in place next to his, content to listen to you chatter on as long as you’d allow him.

He loves that about you. How passionate you are in everything you do. How you slow to appreciate beauty in things like snowstorms, and layers in croissants, and even the subtle timbre of a cello woven into his favorite song.

“Listen close,” you told him when you pointed it out, “It’s fucking incredible.”

He did.

He felt the chords vibrate through him, resolute and melodic. It gave the music new meaning, and he couldn’t believe he’d never noticed it before. He notices every time he hears it now.

But that’s what you do.

Everything seemed so fucking boring before you. Meaningless. You opened his eyes to what was right in front of him and gave it new life. Gave him new life.

The hostess comes to a stop and gestures to a square table, laying a menu on either side of the white linen. You sit across from him and meet his gaze, face all lit up with that gorgeous fucking smile that makes his chest tighten.

“Do you have a strategy in mind here?” he asks, leaning forward onto the table, rubbing his hands together, “Food, wine, dessert, the whole nine yards?”

“I love that movie,” you comment mildly, “Bruce Willis is hot.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“What?” you laugh.

“Bruce Willis, really?”

You study him, clearly very entertained, “Why, are you jealous?”

He scoffs at this, “No—I’m just saying, though, he’s never even been nominated for an Oscar—”

“Oh, well in that case,” you roll your eyes and let out this dramatic sigh.

Dieter laughs and shakes his head, “Wow.”

“Ok, but really,” you turn your attention back to the menu. As you survey it, you tilt your head back and forth thoughtfully, clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth. A mischievous smirk plays on your lips and you ask, “Did Darlene say we were allowed one glass or one bottle of wine?”

Dieter taps an index finger to his chin and grins, “I recall her saying bottle, don’t you?”

“Mmmm, yep, now that you mention it, I’m like… 99% sure she said bottle,” you agree conspiratorially.

He smiles up at you, but his breath hitches when something behind you catches his eye.

Or, someone, rather.

A bright tangerine dress tight around her petite, curvy frame. Loose chestnut curls flowing down her back. Glowing brown eyes locked onto his. A small smirk plays on her plump, shiny lips.

His spine straightens and he mutters under his breath, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

You frown and follow his gaze to Lilly Stokes just as she pushes her chair back and starts towards the table.

“Dieter, hiiii,” Lilly croons, squeezing his forearm, “How are you, Pookie? It’s been a minute.”

Dieter watches your eyes flick between Lilly’s hand on his suit jacket, and her face, and Dieter’s face. He watches the gears turn. The light bulb turns on. Your eyebrows shoot up and you meet his gaze, then immediately drop your eyes to the tablecloth.

“Fine,” he answers and leans back in his chair, pulling his arm from her grasp.

Lilly glances back at her table, then to Dieter, “I’m here with Jay—you remember Jay, right?”

Dieter blinks at her, thinking, “We’ve been inside you at the same time, of fucking course I remember Jay.”

But what he says is, “Yeah.”

“Oh, duh,” Lilly waves off the obvious, then wets the seam of her mouth, eyes dragging along Dieter’s body, “We should merge tables so we can catch up.”

“Oh, no—” Dieter shakes his head and gestures to you, “We’re—”

Lilly finally seems to notice your presence and turns towards you, “Oh my god, Dieter, she’s so cute, are you two on a date?”

“Yeah,” he meets your eyes for a moment before telling Lilly, “This is Louella.”

“Lou-el-la,“ Lilly repeats, enunciating each syllable like she’s trying to commit it to memory, “You don’t mind, do you, beautiful?”

You stare at her for a beat like you’re trying to figure out what she’s asking, then stammer, “Me? Wh—I’m sorry, what?”

“It’s ok if we join you?” Lilly nods, batting her false eyelashes. She asks this in a condescending way, slowing her words down like she’s asking a toddler.

Your throat croaks as you look from her, to Dieter, who’s mentally pleading, “Please no,” then back to Lilly, “Uhh—I mean, sure?”

He deflates as Lilly calls Jay over and pulls out a chair. You mouth, “Sorry.”

Jay Blackburn, who looks like a poor man’s Alexander Skarsgård but six inches shorter, saunters over, a lopsided grin plastered on his smug face, “Bravo. Long time no see.”

“Yeah,” Dieter responds, shifting in his seat at the reminder.

Across the table, you gnaw away at your bottom lip, eyes downcast, your bubbling excitement replaced with this raw, nervous energy. He soaks it up like a sponge. It trickles down his backbone and seeps into his bloodstream as he wrings his hands together.

“Who do we have here?” Jay asks, dragging his eyes along your body, drinking in your beauty with zero fucking shame.

Dieter’s jaw clenches and cocks to one side. His leg starts to bounce.

“I’m Louella.”

A warm smile crosses your face and you extend a hand to him.

Jay takes it in his like a baby bird and presses a kiss into your knuckles, then releases you, “Jay Blackburn.”

“Oh—um, nice to meet you,” you say, glancing at Dieter, then at Lilly, “And you are?”

Lilly bristles at this, huffing a little before her mask of sweetness goes back up and she responds, “Lilly Stokes.”

“So nice to meet you,” you look from her to Jay, “Are you guys actors, too?”

“Um, no,” Lilly lets out this half-chuckle, half-scoff, “That’s so funny. No. Well, maybe someday. But for now I’m just a makeup artist, content creator, brand ambassador for Wowie Zowie Cosmetics, and model,” she counts each role on her fingers, then adds as an afterthought, “Jay is a wellness guru.”

You furrow your brow, “Wellness… guru?”

“Lifestyle coach,” Jay corrects, “Shepherding people to wellness through mindfulness, yoga, and nutrition.”

Dieter rolls his eyes.

“Ohhh,” you nod, “Wow, you’re both, like, really popular on the internet?”

“I have over 10 million followers,” Lilly advises, “So, yeah.”

“She didn’t know who I was, either, if that makes you feel better,” Dieter teases, casting a smirk your way.

You wince and shrug, “Yeah, I, umm… live under a rock, I guess. Sorry.”

“I like that,” Jay says, still eyeing you up like you’re a piece of fucking meat, “It’s refreshing. We should all be so lucky to be sheltered from the world in such a digital age.”

You raise your eyebrows, “I mean, I read the newspaper every day, so I’m very much aware of what’s going on in the world—“

“Right, but,” Jay starts.

“—Just, you know, stuff that matters.”

A stunned sort of silence falls over the table for a moment, then laughter erupts from Dieter’s throat. You grin at him, and Jay must think you were kidding, because he joins in on the laughter.

“You’re funny,” Lilly flashes this smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, then lets out an exasperated sigh and looks around, “Are we going to get some fucking service here or what?”

Throughout the meal, you remain quiet.

You don’t share your thoughts on the cuisine, or the wine, or the world-renowned chef. Your face stays painfully neutral as Lilly and Jay dominate the conversation, going on and on in a masturbatory fashion about their busy lives.

More than anything, Dieter wants to tell them to fuck off. He wants to tell them that neither of you fucking care about subscribers or algorithms or sponsorships. He wants to comment on the restaurant’s heavy-handed use of bear décor and kiss you and tell you he loves you.

But Darlene’s warning to be on his best behavior rings in his head.

Despite this, the one bottle of wine you agreed upon is easily negotiated up to two.

After the plat principal is cleared from the table, Lilly leans towards Dieter and asks “So, what’s new with you? We haven’t heard from you in, what,” she turns to Jay for confirmation, “Months?”

“Summer, I think?” Jay supplies.

“Yeah,” Dieter nods and looks up at you, watching the way you wiggle in your chair and look down at your lap. He shrugs, “I’ve been keeping busy.”

“I see how it is,” Lilly pouts, glancing between his eyes and mouth, “Pookie gets a girlfriend and forgets all about us.”

Heat rises to his face. Every muscle in his body clenches. A hundred violent images flash through his head. The words shut the fuck up wrestle their way up his throat.

“How did you all meet?” you ask, plastering on this polite smile.

Lilly combs her long fingernails through her hair, “I met Dieter at some fundraising gala last year.”

Dieter’s leg starts bouncing. He leans his elbows into the table and presses his closed fist against his lips, watching you absorb this information. But he can’t get a read on you.

“She introduced us,” Jay nods to Lilly, “Yeah, we were at this party, it was fucking wild—”

“Lua doesn’t wanna hear about that,” Dieter cuts in, dropping a hand to the table.

“It’s fine, Dee,” you chuckle, then take a big swallow from your wine glass. Unconvincing.

Jay ignores Dieter’s protest, “It was one of those nights where everyone got very well acquainted with one another, if you know what I mean.”

Your fake smile twitches.

“Sounds… hot,” you offer. You empty the remaining pinot grigio in your glass down your throat. Dieter mirrors the action, taking the wine like a shot of hard liquor.

Lilly sips her martini and lets out this wistful little sigh, “Soooo hot.”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” you announce as you push your chair back, then hurry away from the table before anyone else can respond.

His blood boils.

He glares between Jay and Lilly, well aware of the slew of insults percolating at the tip of his tongue, held back by his awareness of the public eye surrounding them.

“I’ll go talk to her,” Lilly says.

Dieter grits his teeth and warns, “Lillith—”

She waves him off and starts towards the bathroom.

“Dieter,” Jay smirks, tilting his head, “You seem upset.”

“What an astute observation,” Dieter mutters, crossing his arms over his chest, “Fucking incredible.“

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Jay raises his eyebrows, “So we’re touchy, ok. Is it because I told the story?”

Dieter says nothing, just grinds his teeth together.

“She doesn’t know about your more salacious hobbies, I take it?”

“She sure as fuck does now,” Dieter grumbles, “Thank you for that.”

Jay scoffs, “What, is this your first date or something?”

“No.”

Jay hums and takes a sip from his cocktail.

Dieter shakes his head. Scrubs a hand over his face.

Then he sits up and points at your empty seat, “If she’s going to hear about that shit from anyone, it should be me. Not some fucking ghouls just trying to get a rise out of her.”

“Then why didn’t she hear it from you?” Jay questions, pausing a beat before he sighs, “You know, you gotta own your demons, man. It’s not my fault you didn’t tell her—”

“Yeah, I fucking know, ok?” Dieter snips. He leans his elbows against the table, looking towards the women’s bathroom, “What’s taking them so goddamn long?”

Behind the roar of the flushing toilet, you hear the bathroom door open, followed by the sharp click of stilettos against ceramic tile. You open the stall door to find Lilly leaned up against the marble slab countertop, pulling a tiny silver canister from her clutch.

She looks up at the mirror and makes eye contact with you, “Hey, girl.”

“Hi,” you smile politely and approach the sink.

While you wash your hands, you watch Lilly through the mirror as she cuts two thin lines of coke right on the countertop. She fishes a short straw out of her purse and holds it out to you, “Do you want any?”

The ghost of cocaine’s allure sends your heart racing. It’s tempting, but you decline. She shrugs and leans over the counter. You look away and hear the two deep, short breaths through the straw. You swear you can feel the rush vicariously.

She sits up straight and keeps one nostril plugged closed, taking a few sharp inhales, making sure she got it all to the brain. Her eyes flutter and throat hums with contentment, “Fuck, that’s good. You sure you don’t want any?

“I’m fine,” you assure her, but don’t go to leave. You lean one hip against the sink and cross your arms, “Did you and Dieter, like… date?”

Lilly releases a chuckle, a sniffle, then rubs a fingertip against the white marble countertop where her blow was cut, “Oh, no. We fucked, like, a lot. But no, we never dated per se. It was more of a fuck buddy arrangement. No biggie.”

She scrubs her finger against her gums, then turns to the mirror to assess her appearance.

“Was that while he was still with Anika?”

“Well, yeah, that’s how it started. He asked if I could be their third,” she sniffles a few times as she examines her nostrils, “I know Kate Ridley was seeing them for a while, but that must’ve fallen through. Anyway, we all fucked around and it was fun. I brought Jay with a few times. Then Anika got turned off or something, she didn’t wanna get together anymore. Jealous I think, probably. He reached out to me for some one-on-one time.”

The information hits you like a slap in the face. A kick in the gut. A fist closed around your windpipe, squeezing tighter and tighter.

You can’t breathe.

“And of course I said yes. It doesn’t hurt to cozy up to a guy like him, with his connections and all. Good career move. Plus, he’s so good in bed. Fucks like an animal,” Lilly giggles, “Not that I have to tell you, right?”

Your face heats and lips part to respond, but she continues without regard.

“If you ever wanted a third, I’d be happy to step in. Jay, too, I’m sure of it. He was checking you out. You’re hot, you know, in a non-traditional kind of way. How long have the two of you been going out?”

She stares at you, waiting. Your throat croaks and you hear yourself say, “A few months, officially.”

“Oh, are you two, like, serious?”

You bring your hand to your throat and nod, “Yeah.”

“Weird,” she murmurs, “After what happened with Anika, I thought he was done trying to pretend he was like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like… monogamous, you know. He told me he’s a free spirit, doesn’t want to be tied down by one person ever again, all that. Then he disappears and re-emerges in a supposedly serious relationship, no offense, but it’s just confusing.”

“Oh,” you breathe, frowning down at the floor, “Well, maybe he changed?”

“The man is almost 50, I doubt that,” she scoffs, checking herself out in the mirror, then glances over at you, “Or, I mean, maybe? Hopefully?”

You nod solemnly and swallow the knot in your throat, “Should we go back?”

“Sure,” she shrugs, then leads the way out of the bathroom, into the dining room.

When you meet Dieter’s eyes, his annoyed expression goes slack. You lay one hand flat, palm facing the ceiling, balling the other into a thumbs up on top, and raise both hands. The signal he taught you back in your apartment before this clusterfuck started: Help.

Once seated, you keep your eyes low, trying to keep the steady hum in your chest from amplifying. Everything seems fuzzy and out-of-focus.

It’s too much. Too much noise. Too much information. Too much change at one time. You want off this fucking ride. You want to be home in bed, hidden under the covers where no one can reach you.

“We should go,” Dieter announces from far away.

Your body is cement. Limbs frozen. Lilly’s words play on repeat at a deafening volume:

I thought he was done trying to pretend he was like that.

He’s a free spirit, doesn’t want to be tied down by one person ever again.

“Oh, come on, Pookie–”

“Stop fucking calling me that,” he growls, then softer, in your direction, “Are you ready, love?”

You nod, then look from Lilly to Jay, your smile wavering, “It was nice to meet you both.”

Dieter leads you past blurry tables of shiny, well-to-do patrons, his hand at the small of your back, burning through your dress. You can feel his gaze glued to your profile, trying to assess the damage. You can hear the words queued up behind his closed lips.

A restaurant employee holds the door open for you. The cool night air kisses your heated, buzzing skin.

“Hey, are you ok?” Dieter asks, his thumb working against your spine.

You look down at the sidewalk and open your mouth to tell him, but it’s all a jumbled mess at the base of your tongue. Fire rises up your throat and tingles behind your eyes. You just shake your head and smother the sob in your chest.

Tears bloom in your eyes and drop to the cement. You croak out, “I’m fine.”

He scoffs.

The valet rolls up in Dieter’s cartoonish, pea soup-colored two-seater and tosses him the keys.

Once inside, you clasp the seatbelt. Grip the leather upholstery. Stare out the side window as the landscape starts to move.

“Louella” he coos, glancing between you and the road.

The car clunks a little as he shifts gears. You grip the seat tighter. Watch the city lights fly by.

He tries every once and a while to talk to you, but you can’t make yourself respond.

You’ve been here before.

You know what happens if you make a sound. If you vocalize the protest in your lungs.

What happens next is acceleration.

Car horns.

Impact.

Those vacant black eyes.

Darkness.

The second the car pulls into Dieter’s garage, you’re unfastening the seat belt.

When he shifts to park, you yank on the door handle and scramble from the vehicle.

The entryway door slams in Dieter’s face as you kick off the stupid high heels you never would have picked out for yourself.

“What the fuck is your problem?” his voice booms through the house when he opens the door.

By now, you’re halfway down the hall, making a beeline to his en suite bathroom, leaving a trail of jewelry behind you like breadcrumbs: the left earring, the right earring, bracelets, a necklace. All these brilliant ornaments Kelly loaned you to make you look more refined.

Dieter’s footsteps sound from a few paces behind as you turn into his bedroom.

“Louella, come on. Why won’t you talk to me?”

The edge his words carry make your heart jump and your feet move faster. You hurry into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind you.

He jiggles the handle, “What the fuck is this? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask.

“That I slept with Lilly and Jay?“ he scoffs, “I didn’t think it mattered who I fucked before you—”

“That’s not what I mean. You know that’s not what I mean,” you press your forehead against the door and squeeze your eyes closed, “When I asked you what happened with you and Anika, you said the two of you grew apart. That—that she was resentful—like it was her fault–”

“Open the door so we can talk about this,” he says in a low voice, “Please, baby.”

You shake your head, whimpering, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

The door handle jiggles again, “Come on, Lua, open the door.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can, just unlock it—”

“Answer me.”

“GodDAMNIT–”

A hard thud shakes the doorframe.

You jump back and yelp.

“This is so fucking stupid,” he seethes, “Lock yourself in my fucking bathroom instead of talking to me. You realize how fucking stupid that is, right?”

He hits the door again. You scramble away from it, watching the doorknob rattle.

“Stop it, Dieter,” you cry out, backing yourself up to the wall, “You’re scaring me.”

“I’m scaring you?” he scoffs, his words still steeped in red, “Do you really think I would fucking hurt you?”

You slide down the wall and collapse into a pile, covering your head. All you can hear are your own shattered breaths.

A few quiet moments go by.

When his voice comes again, it’s a plea.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.”

You look up at the door and sniffle, wiping your eyes.

“I—I wanted to tell you. I mean, I was going to tell you. I swear to god. It’s just,” there’s a soft thump against the door, and you can picture him on the other side, forehead pressed up against it, “Do you know how hard it is to admit that you’re a piece of shit?”

You don’t say anything, just watch his still shadow beneath the door.

“Do you know how hard it is for me to willingly show you that? I mean, fuck. How–how are you supposed to trust me now?”

What follows is silence. Broken up by occasional sniffles and wet, labored breaths. Your chest aches.

Slowly, you rise to your feet and pad across the cool tile floor.

When you reach the door, you don’t say anything, just press your palm against the barrier where you think his heart is. And you swear, if you concentrate hard enough, you can feel its steady rhythm.

“How are you supposed to love me now?” he whispers, “You won’t even look at me, Louella.”

Your eyelids clamp shut and you take a deep breath. Then you step back and turn the doorknob, pulling the door open.

And there he is.

Dieter Bravo. The man you love.

His eyes all puffed-up and red-rimmed, cheeks streaked with tears. Every handsome feature laced with remorse.

You wrap your arms around him, burying your face in his suit jacket. He envelops you in a warm embrace and squeezes you tight.

“I’m–I’m sorry for yelling,” he tells you in a hoarse whisper, petting your hair, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened, I lost it.”

You swallow hard and rub his back, a silent kind of reassurance.

“I would never hurt you, Lua,” his voice cracks, “I’m not him. I’m not him.”

Instantly, tears flood your eyes.

“I know, love,” you croak out, pulling him closer, “I know.”

Dieter kisses the crown of your head with reverence. Then your forehead. He tilts your chin to face him dead on, grazing his nose against yours, “Wanna talk about this more in the bath?”

You nod and weave your fingers through the curls at the back of his head. His lips meet yours, lingering for a tender moment before he pulls back and makes his way over to the soaking tub.

While you wash the makeup off your face, he fiddles with the water temperature and crumbles a magenta bubble bar in the stream. The sweet scent of blackcurrant fills the air. You glance up in the mirror and see him shucking off his suit jacket, eyes trailing down your spine. His breath heats the nape of your neck when he draws close and unzips your dress, his movements gentle and slow as he slides it off your shoulders.

The dress falls at your feet. You turn to face him, murmuring, “Look up.”

He does, and you set to work on his shirt buttons. When you’re halfway down his chest, he asks, “Will you tell me what she said?”

“She, um,” you pause to bite down on your bottom lip, then sigh, “She told me you and Anika would fuck around with her and sometimes Jay. Then, you know, just her.”

He hums in acknowledgment.

You reach the end of his button-down, then spread the shirt apart. As he takes over tugging it off, you ask, “Was that something that you wanted, or…?”

“We both wanted to try it,” he shrugs. Your hands move to his belt buckle and you unfasten it. He continues, “Thought it would reignite that passion. It was fucking stupid because it just made us both jealous.”

He pauses to kick off his slacks, then ushers you face the mirror again. You watch him unclasp your bra and toss it aside, glancing up when you recount, “She said you didn’t want to be tied down by one person ever again.“

He nods, diverting his gaze, “Yeah. Well, that’s true. I didn’t,” then his eyes return to yours, “But then you came along. Fucked up all my big plans to be lonely and miserable forever.”

You can’t help but grin.

He casts a backwards glance at the tub, “I think it’s ready.”

Dieter gets in first, groaning as he lowers himself into the bubbles. You sit on the opposite side and tip your face to the ceiling, stretching your legs across him, then sink down to your shoulders.

The water burns your skin a little, but you like it. It feels real.

“Hey,” Dieter rumbles.

You swivel your head down to look at him, but can only see bubbles.

“Holy shit,” you giggle, then sit up and meet his eyes, “What?”

“Come here, doll,” he reaches out to you.

You slide your feet under the water and crawl over to him, closing your eyes as you lay your cheek on his shoulder and relax against his body. He wraps his arms around your waist, snuggling you like you’re his favorite teddy bear.

One of your hands occupies itself by absentmindedly tracing the edges of his jaw. The shell of his ear. That one silver hoop earring he refuses to part with. Your nails work into his hairline and play with his damp curls.

“Were there others?” you ask him.

His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, then he admits, “Yeah. A few. Just hookups, really. Lilly was the most consistent, and that was still, you know…”

“No strings attached?” you smirk.

“Yeah.”

“Why did you do it?”

Your spine arches as he draws a big breath in, then releases it, “All the reasons I said it didn’t work. That was true, you know. I was gone a lot. Filming, meetings, press stuff. A few days here, a week there. There was one stretch where I was gone for two months. I’m not drowning in work or anything, but it adds up. I don’t think she realized that being with me meant being away from me that often. And. Yeah.

“At first, it upset me a lot. I thought she would be supportive and loving. Compassionate, you know. But she turned so cold when she was mad. Completely ignored me. Acted like I didn’t exist. Even when I begged for her reassurance, for her to show me she still cared and noticed me, but she wouldn’t react. I felt like a ghost. It-it kind of reminded me—”

He pauses here for a moment, holding his breath, then releases a soft, sad chuckle. His Adam’s apple bobs. When he starts again, his voice is watery.

“It reminded me of what it was like for me growing up. If I didn’t please my dad, he would ignore me completely. I would act out, be loud, push him until he exploded. Because then… then at least I knew he could see me. It was something, you know?”

You blindly cup his cheek and graze your thumb against his beard to let him know you’re listening. He nuzzles into the touch, a small rumble sounding from his throat.

“Maybe I was acting out with Annie? Or maybe just trying to… fill that emptiness, loneliness. Or numb out. Forget that my wife didn’t love me anymore. I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t matter. I started using again. Heroin, oxy, bars, morphine, adderall, booze. Whatever I could get my hands on, really. But blow has always been my favorite. It makes me feel…”

“Powerful?”

“Yeah,” he says, “Yeah. Powerful. And with other people I actually felt… desired. Plus, they were both a rush. I felt alive. When I was home I was hollow. I stopped groveling for her affection when I started fucking around. Neither of us wanted to work on the hard things. The whole fucking thing, you know, it metastasized. And—and our relationship died.”

“Fuck,” you grimace.

Dieter cranes his neck to look at you, “Too bleak?”

“No, it’s not that,” you tell him, “It’s just… familiar.”

Adrenaline spikes your bloodstream. Your mouth opens to say more, then you close it and hold your breath.

He rests his cheek on your head. Squeezes you a little tighter. Like he’s prodding you so say more.

“Do I make you happy?” you ask him.

“Do you make me happy?” he repeats, disbelief raising his voice an octave.

You nod.

“I told you earlier,” he kisses your hairline, “You make me so happy, Louella.”

“But will you feel the same tomorrow?”

“Obviously,” he lets out a little snort of laughter like he thinks you’re kidding. Silence settles. His body seems to tense and he adds, “Really, love, I mean it.”

Your teeth catch your bottom lip. Brows lace together. Then you ask, “What about a month from now?”

“Don’t do that, come on—”

“A year from now? Or—or longer, even—”

“Lua,” he huffs, then pulls you up to face him. His eyes are soft and pleading. He brushes his knuckles against your cheek, “Look, we won’t be happy every second of every day. You know why?”

A sharp pain radiates across your chest. You wince and shake your head.

He tilts your chin up to meet his eyes and says, “Because it’s fucking impossible. If we do this thing right, which I fully intend to, sometimes we’re going to be scared, and frustrated, and–and we might want to take an easy way out. But I’m telling you that I will not do that. Because I love you.”

You search his face and only find sincerity. Your stomach flips in a freefall so violent it makes you gasp, “Fuck, I love you.”

He smirks, gaze flicking between your eyes and lips, “And I’m going to love you tomorrow.”

Your heart skips. Heat creeps up your neck.

He cups your cheeks and locks his eyes onto yours, “And the next day, and ten years from now, and all the way until my next fucking life, ok?”

“Ok,” you nod. Tension liquifies and drains from your body. The corners of your mouth upturn and you ask, “What then?”

“What then?” he snorts, shaking his head with amusement, “What do you think? Hmm?”

You grin and shrug, pressing the tip of your tongue to your front teeth.

His eyes drop to your mouth and he pulls you in for a kiss. When you part, he murmurs, “I’ll fucking find you in the next life and fall in love with you all over again.”

The words electrify you. You hook your hands behind his head and press your forehead against his, “Promise?”

“Cross my heart,” he murmurs, and kisses you again.

#psychomanteum #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo x oc #dieter bravo angst #dieter bravo fic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #the bubble fanfiction #the bubble fic

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swervenation · 2 years

Text

Swerve x Human Liaison Reader

THIS was supposed to be a short list of headcanons to repay noted Swerve Enjoyer @i-starcreamed for all their writing. But. Um. This is actually part 1 of at least 3, and it’s already at ... 1,500 words. So, uh, below the readmore, my take on Swerve with a human liaison who starts out as distant and quiet.

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / ?

Here’s a song that reminds me of this chapter, because I’m cringe and made a playlist :3

I've seen stories where the liaison is just kind of rescued and then given a job title to justify their presence on the ship, and while I love that, the "distant and quiet" part of this request is making me think of someone who sought out this position and takes it very seriously. You lay diplomatic groundwork with other organic species the Lost Light is expected to encounter on such-and-such pit stop before contact. On occasions when some organics are rescued, you're in charge of hospitality. Even though you're vastly different from those species biologically, you're a great help facilitating communication between them and the bots. It's not a very flashy job, but they're very grateful to have you on board. Rodimus knows their noble rescue efforts would be meaningless if you weren't around to ensure that his charges didn't die from neglect of some perplexing biological need, such as thirst or sleep. Magnus is certainly appreciative of your professionalism - a trait he hopes rubs off on the rest of the crew.

But you haven't really connected with any of the crew outside of your job. That's how you view this: as a job. It's a fantastic opportunity - you finally have the chance to study these fascinating life forms up close after years of reading and academic research. The last thing you would want to do is ruin that opportunity by unknowingly committing a social faux pas or becoming entangled in some drama. This isn't to say you don't desperately want to befriend them. You plan on doing so. One day. Once you've learned how to navigate these social situations perfectly, you'll finally talk with some of your crewmates.

However, you can almost always be found at Swerve's in the evening. There's an out of the way nook with a wide view of the place that you've claimed. There, you alternate between people-watching, working, and relaxing in the pleasant buzzing atmosphere of the bar. At first, some bots were curious about you, and would try to start up conversations. While you were certainly polite, you never really let such chat evolve into anything beyond small talk. Again - one day you'd make connections with them. Once you figured it all out. It didn't take long for everyone to forget about your presence - you just became part of the scenery.

Swerve himself helped set you up with this perfect spot. The first night, you sat on a seat built for Cybertronians. Not only was it ridiculously big, but you were almost accidentally crushed by Whirl within a minute of arriving. Swerve got you to safety before your brush with death even registered with you. One second, he was behind the bar, the next, he had swiped you out of the way of Whirl's lethally pointy aft. (Suddenly finding yourself held like a football (American) in the crook of his arm distracted you from noticing the spilt engex and shattered glasses he left in his wake when he leapt, to the best of his ability, over the bar at the first hint of danger. Even though you would have found his reckless concern for you moving, he would be very relieved to know that you didn't see any of that.) Before even giving you his name, he quickly escorted you to a quieter corner of the room and motioned towards a well-lit recess in the wall relatively close to the bar. It had a nice view of the whole establishment, and was positioned a few feet above the average bot's height - your view wasn't blocked, and being above eye-level, you were out-of-sight out-of-mind for most bargoers. For your people-watching purposes, it was perfect. There was already a table and two chairs there already.

"The organic suite," he explained. "Some of your guests stop by here from time to time - I set it up for those of them whose idea of a good night out doesn't involve being crushed to death."

You thanked him with a beaming smile and introduced yourself as the human liaison.

"I know," he remarked casually, forgetting for a moment how such an exchange was supposed to go. "I mean - it's very nice to meet you, y/n. I'm Swerve! Welcome to, uh, Swerve's." He held out a servo for you to shake, which you did, gratefully. Such human gestures were uncommon on this ship. As soon as you wrapped your hand around two of his digits, and his knuckles carefully cupped your palm, a small jolt of static electricity ran up your arm, causing you to flinch slightly. This wasn't unnoted by your host, whose concerned reaction, to your estimation, suggested that such a startle was a misstep. When you gave his metal hand two business-like pumps, it moved responded in the most limp-fish handshake way a robot possibly could, as though he feared he might damage you with the slightest move.

You thanked him again and he had Ten lift you up to your booth. Not only was the "organic suite" practical, but it was surprisingly clean and well lit. You got to jotting down your notes for today and unexpectedly, Ten returned a few minutes later with some water and the dish that, out of the limited fare available to you on the Lost Light, had always been your favorite. In all the excitement, you had completely forgotten about dinner - you assumed it must have been sent here instead of your room when you weren't found there. It would arrive at the same time every night from then on out.

Unbeknownst to the rest of the bargoers, you took a deep interest in the social life unfolding around you. You intended to learn Cybertronian culture, manners, and friendships inside and out before attempting to actually engage with them. You had been kicking yourself this whole time about your shocked reaction to a twinge of electricity when you shook Swerve's hand earlier. They're robots for God's sake! That's like being shocked that a human's hand was warm! You couldn't let yourself blunder like that again until you were positive nothing would surprise you. In the meantime, you delighted in the gossip you overheard from your nook. You developed one-sided attachments to some of its key players, as though they were characters in a book.

The most reliable source of gossip is, of course, your bartender. You had barely spoken to him since that first encounter - you would just smile and nod at each other when you arrived like clockwork at the same time each night and ascended the spiral staircase Ten fashioned for you. Nonetheless, you found yourself gravitating towards him. He was loud enough that you could hear him clearly from your spot in the bar (even when he was speaking on more confidential matters), and his voice was distinct enough that you could always pick it out. That voice was quicker and a little higher-pitched than the others, but what stood out most was its delivery. He had a way of punctuating a joke, weaving in suspense, describing even his most mundane observations so colorfully that it took effort to shift your focus elsewhere once he caught your ear.

As time went on, you found that you cared a lot more about what the other bots were doing when you heard it from his mouth. It was like he was getting better and better at storytelling every night, and he never ran out of material. Even his bartending improved - he mixed drinks with a confident smoothness and the increasingly common flourish. As he spoke, he would flip glasses, bottles, etc. around in his hand, and would sometimes toss a shaker behind his back while mixing. It was like a new glow had started to settle on his face. You would try to research what the new slight blue tint to his face meant, but couldn't find any certain answers in your reference materials.

You didn't notice how much of your attention he captured until one night, your eye thoughtlessly drifted from your favorite bot down the bar. You jumped in your seat when you found Cyclonus's supicious red eyes trained on you - one of his brows was raised, as though he were trying to parse at whom and why you'd been staring for so long. You broke eye contact quickly and mentally started kicking yourself. What must he be thinking? That your silent observation implied scheming, or that it was simply very weird? This made you consider your own motives and choices. It did seem rather creepy - and your quick, guilty reaction certainly didn't prove your innocence. It finally hit you how strange your behavior was. What were you thinking? Instead of reflecting on your motives, you decided it would be best to spend some time away from Swerve's.

#mtmte #x reader #swerve #swerve x reader #??? how do i tag this umm #my stuff #tf x reader #mtmte x reader #lost light x reader #????#transformers x reader

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binniesoob · 9 months

Text

My very professional review of Things I Can't Say I LOve by OnlyOneOf

bare with me, i had a long day working and studying and all my two braincells left can do is singing "addict to you- addict-" and thinking about that very specific frame of yoojung from the dOpamine mv (more on this later).

not a single bad song in this album i fear.

things i can't say i lOve (instrumental)

went straight into my sci-fi dystopian cyberpunk playlist. the sound is sooo cool to me!! it's giving ateez ngl (affectionate). love the fact that it's not too rough on the ears and has that airy (?) ending. i've replayed it an embarrassing amount of times already... watch it being one of my most played songs this month 💀

dOpamine

since the preview i suspected i was going to enjoy this title track a lot and more than seOul drift, and i was right! i really like the contrast between the industrial sounds and percussions of the verses reminiscing of chrOme hearts and the guitar in the pre-chorus and bridge (that made me levitate btw). the build-up is nice 😌👌 it's on the ooo chillier side aka perfect for me yay

give me the lOve, bitxx

the sound is giving alternative rnb (too tired to know for sure), so i was sold already 😋 she's the brighter sister of "mirage", the toxic one of "suit dance", and the chiller one of "gaslighting". she sits at the same table of "time machine", "desert" and "heartbreak terminal", and i love this for me because i love all these songs 😎

i might be completely wrong about all the associations above though ... my mind is playing a mashup remix of all of them at this point lol

nothing better than a slow sexy rnb-ish sound with percussions to make me happy 🤌 the sound production is so cool again, idk how to articulate words more than this rn, but all the various sounds work perfectly together and with ooo's voices 😌👌 talking of voices... kb's deep register esp in the beginning!! more of this in the future please and thank u 🙌 mill mini-rap followed by junji higher note!! can't seem to hear enough of yoojung tho 🧐👂 and that's a crime also because this is my fav track of the album 😠 i'm gonna look for a color-coded lyrics vid to check 🤨

gravity

this song is sooooo gooooddd ahhhhhhhh really my vibe once again 🤭 the chorus is so cute <3 and nine and junji in the bridge 😮💨 i am levitating 🕴 tbh i see it as a perfect chiller title track too, if ooo had made a bright, cute concept, the genre of vibes that love 119 by riize and inbloom by zerobaseone are for example, but chiller 🤔 also, I CAN HEAR MY MAN YOOJUNG CLEARLY HERE THANK U

time for my current ranking:

gravity

dOpamine

give me the lOve, bitxx

in conclusion, i really missed my boys ☹ more than i thought i did tbh! i'm so happy we finally have new music from them 🫶🏻 there's no better way to start the new year~

this is all for now because i am too tired to write anything more 😴

let me know your thoughts!! 🫶🏻

#i might have written things that do not make sense #have mercy on my two braincells #onlyoneof #jothingz

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amphiptere · 2 months

Text

So there are a lot of ASMR videos of people reading the first chapter of a book but there are far fewer where people then proceed to read the entire book and as someone fond of finishing books, these appeal to me a lot more. I've made a list of Youtube playlists which read books in full, here they are below the cut. Most are public domain (as they should be) but some unfortunately are not. Titles are listed alphabetically. Please let me know if I'm missing any books here, I'd love to grow the list!

A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qkkOTK0NV68&list=PLpNULLlab16ThYI89eP2pF6IWb1lht0de https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sO8w5Kxnp_c&list=PLixhERGNwuH0j2BjkmEOErsV46mKx_wBv (alternative) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h-0KW2M4AVs (alternative) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i3JG2UGOSFI&list=PLoMHYOaXcv7iRop5Z9eF_I2BG-I5NqgYD&pp=iAQB (alternative) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HBPMN6gaBnM (alternative) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mnagKqzwbhk (alternative)

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=co_tEU11TiI&list=PLpNULLlab16Q8uK1Gzacs46NatSm3JvgA https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SLbRPBgH6tA&list=PLCdPdPaGwxIuVDhkWgt1CSanEjT0DGR0j&index=1 (alternative) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gCwW04boMtw&list=PLixhERGNwuH09vquZl6TwY8qAvLtCqa2s&index=1 (alternative)

A Little Princess, Frances Hodge Burnett https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rxmjwYEQrEQ&list=PLCdPdPaGwxIulbWjZ5LbfJaTNbJWxztX7

Coraline, Neil Gaiman https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D3aw6Sb3Djk&list=PLcnoOW1ZgX4fj1oyKC3XOXhIDg7euqOjj

Emma, Jane Austen https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z__sdrNrdPA&list=PL3lPIOSZjFjgZn1Yo3YpXtT_wWuHaKW2q (incomplete, but still being uploaded to)

Frankenstein, Mary Shelley https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DnUTfpYFgsc&list=PLCdPdPaGwxIs8lC7WRqc2tTE8Cp6r5FiZ&index=1

The Great Gatsby, F Scott Fitzgerald https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WeTQBX_n_uM&list=PLpNULLlab16QAJPGfzAaJcPTATTh4zhks

Heartstopper volumes 1-5, Alice Oseman https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ASfBMKvjUQ&list=PLxs4Ya8eGrnUGDBeH2UPrqtu4Ai9kctzj [Heartstopper is available to read for free, legally online on the webcomic site Tapas (https://tapas.io/episode/428109), where author Alice Oseman links her patreon www.patreon.com/aliceoseman and promotes charities. If you read along on the website while playing this video, ad revenue from having the page open will be donated to her current selected charity, or you can make a donation of your choosing. She features the Albert Kennedy Trust, The Okra Project (www.theokraproject.com/), Black Lives Matter (blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/), African Rainbow Family (africanrainbowfamily.org/), UK Black Pride (www.ukblackpride.org.uk/), Trans Women of Color Collective, Imaan LGBTQI Muslim Support (www.justgiving.com/imaan-lgbtqi), Gendered Intelligence (genderedintelligence.co.uk/), Rainbow Noir (rainbownoirmcr.com/), Black Trans Alliance (www.blacktransalliance.org/), fiveforfive (www.fiveforfive.co.uk/give), Small Trans Library Glasgow (www.paypal.com/pools/c/8nwkSOqDCS), Trans Mutual Aid Manchester (PayPal.me/TMAMCR), Lambdaistanbul (www.lambdaistanbul.org/s/), Social Policy Gender Identity and Sexual Orientation Studies Association (https://spod.org.tr/destekcimiz-olun/), Ukraine Crisis Fundraiser (donate.chooselove.org/campaigns/ukraine-appeal/), Not a Phase (https://notaphase.org/), The Outside Project (https://lgbtiqoutside.org/), London Trans+ Pride 2023 (https://gofundme.com/f/london-trans-pride-2023), Trans Pride Brighton (transpridebrighton.org/donate/), Gender GP (www.gendergp.com/the-gendergp-fund/), Rainbow Migration (www.rainbowmigration.org.uk/), Háttér Society (https://en.hatter.hu/), Loving Me (linktr.ee/lovingmerefuge), TransgenderNI (https://transgenderni.org.uk/), Scottish Trans (https://www.scottishtrans.org/support-us/), Transanta (https://www.transanta.com/),

The Hobbit, J R R Tolkien https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GMowhwgk-us&list=PLG_Q2teizkJWGhKu87JAyCU0MdjyloiQp https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2xk8kVZkPD8&list=PL0AdMHk9MvMmWtaNOfnATwZaGwta8He8x (alternative)

It Ends With Us, Colleen Hoover https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ewt1imiy7ag&list=PL8pqh8auXpxxk3tkwA26dbov5j-CpNxO3

Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xtXIOlrtpK8&list=PLCdPdPaGwxIt4ZE9hXrZOvA29YfwwTwMa https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vA7lcdFBcls&list=PLzk4WchLL98RlQeLT47l9sjVRt1A4IHRq (alternative, though this person didn’t finish the book)

Little Women, Louisa May Alcott https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JI4lzPOV0l4&list=PLCdPdPaGwxIvMEcN68nahcNUQgsI5P7Ui&index=1

The Locked Door, Freida McFadden https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uikICxpgJdA&list=PLcnoOW1ZgX4fpY9mnR6Xwak-MVx40KLF3&index=1

The Portrait of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4nXRz0fcXrQ&t=1564s (full) https://www.youtube.com/@VoxAkuma/search?query=dorian%20gray (chapters 1-10)

Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sNBeqZMyBr0 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5dUpv2-oYC4&list=PLHnQyWRZbpKp4DYYpgnjH1G5TALyUSb0V (alternative)

The Railway Children, E Nesbit https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J68qeGYUE4o&list=PLHfInBjPv6hJMDFTt47pFgNUCEdQz1UwV

Sherlock Holmes short stories, Arthur Conan Doyle (the full novels in this playlist are incomplete) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GqXTBz5DzMk&list=PLixhERGNwuH17xkVj-Il7kkh6ZXyJuQYF

The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, Robert Louis Stevenson https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2UKjli-Ei-8&list=PLixhERGNwuH2vSfgNkZsNDXsIb7BvTejV

The Time Machine, H G Wells https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1NGUUM4d7kc&list=PLpNULLlab16R8wtJ2wwN5IdU3xqQxYgJd&index=2 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YKOnV8kzYwE&list=PLyuRs8VU5XMN6C4RCPoj7lj_tY3mIvxxX (alternative)

Twilight, Stephanie Meyer

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ztqh1IgLrZE&list=PLzBuApkiDv3OpM3YfJRhW-7o_lSKlMI38

The Woman In Me, Britney Spears https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l7vhEWHX03g&list=PLcnoOW1ZgX4fyUp0oLA25ZMq0fxSDcGhp

#mine #books

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ilgaksu · 11 months

Note

2, 29, 42 for the fanfic writer's ask game! :)

from this ask game, which I'm still answering if you're so inclined

I'm doing all of these on my phone so they're taking a little bit to complete, but I LOVE this meme and I love talking about my writing because who doesn't:

2. Go to your AO3 “Works” page, to the sidebar with all the filters, and click the drop-down arrow for “Additional Tags.” What are your top 3-5 most used tags? Do you think they accurately represent your writing habits?

Okay, I laughed, because they are as follows:

Trans Xie Yuchen (42)

Post-Canon (22)

Alternate Universe (15)

Established Relationship (14)

Character Study (13)

I....would say those are pretty accurate, yeah, but you'd have to tell me.

29. What songs would be (or are) on a playlist for [insert fic]? Explain your choices if you want!

As a joke, I'm working on a playlist for blind boys don't lie, a vampire heihua fic inspired by the lost boys, where every song is period-accurate. I generally have a playlist for every fic I've written, even if it's just a handful of songs - for a long time, I made fanmixes rather than write in fandom - so do you have a specific one you'd want to see??? I can dig them up.

42. Have you ever received a comment that particularly stood out to you for whatever reason?

I'm actually going to discuss two of them, if that's okay, because they've stayed with me ever since.

The first one was on kick at the darkness, which is a klance fic that starts off as a queer pastiche of Dirty Dancing, and rapidly becomes a coming of age story about queer immigrants in 20th century America (the main three characters are a Cuban man post-Revolution who works in customer service in Florida, a disabled Japanese survivor of the WW2 internment camps, and the son of Koreans who fled the Japanese Occupation of Korea). The title is literally from a line in the song Lovers in a Dangerous Time (you gotta kick at the darkness/till it bleeds sunlight). I spent a lot of time researching the experiences I was going to be touching on in what was both an interracial but interclass love story that needed to feel hopeful and defiant without undermining the reality of being undesirable in America. Anyway, I once got a comment from a reader who said the backstory for Lance in it exactly echoed how their family had arrived in America, and that it was the first time they'd ever seen it be given to a romantic lead as a story. I think about that one a lot and how it made me feel all that risk and effort had paid off. I hope they're doing okay.

The other comment was on Twitter during my xiyao pandemic days, which I since deactivated so I'm going to have to paraphrase. I was basically told I view people in my writing with both warm empathy and a surgical precision, and am unflinching in facing the mechanisms of cruelty, but that the entire time it feels as if I'm holding the reader's hand. I love that. It speaks to a lot of how I perceive the world outside my work, but also makes me feel my ethos behind writing comes through: I don't want to be viewed as handing something down to an audience. We are in communion, despite never having met, for the time you're reading.

#i always look forward to your asks!!!#tinbramble #asks

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bookwormscififan · 2 years

Text

Case File of ALTR 1208 "Bookwormscififan"

Recorded November 14 20:48 outside [REDACTED] facility, upon orders by scientist [REDACTED] to investigate all ALTRs within the "Jacksepticeye Community", titled under Genesis ALTR 0363 "@tracobuttons"

ALTR 1208 was first found in an abandoned cabin in northwest Melbourne, sometime in the spring of 2017. At that time the ALTR seemed far too unstable to be caught and documented. This ALTR was observed through to 2018, where she was then gently retrieved and brought to a safe IRIS facility.

This ALTR is of average height and weight, with opaque olive skin (making it difficult to obtain blood samples), and eye and hair colour differing based on time of day. She is able to comprehend, mimic, and discuss various topics, but seems most interested in astronomy and music.

Few people have managed to get answers out of this ALTR, as she appears relatively shy. Her writing style is dark and intrusive, yet she seems to entertain other ALTRs in the facility. While writing seems to have a calming effect on her, there are periods of time where she seems unable to form anything she appears to have pride in. Further study is required to determine if this ALTR has any interests other than writing.

This ALTR’s typical appearance is of a seemingly normal human, with slightly pointed ears and freckled cheeks. Her hair is silken in this form, and lights seem to dim around her. Her fingers appear long and thin, with shining black polish on the nails. When angered, lights appear to flicker and her eyes grow dark, pupils dilating to fill most of the eyeball. Further investigation is required to find alternate means to calm and harness the energy ALTR 1208 presents when angered.

Behavioural studies have found ALTR 1208 to be quiet and shy, however when sharing a cell with familiar ALTRs, she becomes comfortable and talkative. When aggravated or given too much stimulation, however, the ALTR becomes aggressive and volatile, energy causing massive power surges through the facility. It is encouraged interviews with this ALTR are performed cautiously with avoidance to topics attached in this file.

A secondary appearance of this ALTR has only been revealed once, in a moment of extreme depression. The ALTR takes on an almost ghostly appearance, with translucent white skin pulled taught over her bones and large midnight blue eyes. Her hair grows dark, and her nails grow out into talons. When in this form, it is suggested that ALTR 1208 remain in an isolated cell with classical music to calm her down. She additionally appears capable of time, reality, and smoke manipulation at this time.

ALTR 1208 has claimed to have been “close to death” at several points in her life, however when asked to elaborate on this claim, she becomes reclusive and unwilling to talk. It is hypothesised that the reality manipulation she is capable of could be a result of this claim.

Most attempts to learn more about this ALTR have been met with sarcastic remarks and silence. She seems unwilling to discuss her past, and when prodded about specific experiences, steers close to her secondary appearance. When given distraction items such as crochet, knitting, or sewing implements, she appears more open to conversation. ALTR 1208 has made IRIS personnel several small figures as rewards for gaining her trust.

Removing distraction items or changing music playlists result in aggression from this ALTR, and is highly discouraged. Only specific workers are allowed to clean her cell, and only under observation from the ALTR herself.

One item that prevents ALTR 1208 from screaming during the night has been a baby doll of roughly 18 years of age, found inside the abandoned cabin with the ALTR. It appears to provide comfort for her and attempts to remove it for cleaning or observation resulted in an overprotective response from the ALTR.

Rewarding the ALTR for remaining in her cell have been met with scepticism and sarcasm. It is theorised that ALTR 1208 does not appreciate gifts, however, she seems to enjoy receiving new music to listen to. An old CD player is provided in her cell with the power connection always on.

ALTR 1208 has only caused a few minor injuries to personnel, yet has threatened major injuries if provoked. When given time with other ALTRs she can seem benevolent and kind, smiling at personnel when they arrive to take her back to her cell. She rarely makes escape attempts, and when questioned about this, has responded that she enjoys the solitude. It would appear ALTR 1208 suffers from some form of antisocialism, and the prescribed hour of social interaction wears her out.

CONCLUSION: While seemingly docile and polite, ALTR 1208 is capable of aggressive behaviours when provoked. Due to the limited evidence and tests performed on ALTR 1208, it is recommended to keep rapport with her in order to obtain more information about potential threats ALTR 1208 may exhibit.

#jacksepticeye #writing #jacksepticeye community #IRIS project #ALTR 1208 #ALTRs #ALTR #IRIS

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banannabethchase · 2 years

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Matt is bored. Bored Matt is chaos Matt. Bored Matt decides to play Truth or Dare with the roster, because apparently it's 2008 and I'm writing classic tropes out of nostalgia.

Alternate titles: 23 times Matt Jackson asked somebody "truth or dare" and the 1 time somebody asked him back Truth or dare as introspection A fictionalization of those times in high school where you dare everybody to kiss each other and you end up making out with your best friend Matt Jackson Is Bored And That Means Chaos

I hope you enjoy. This is for an old Marianas Trench lyric prompt meme for the prompts "Just spin the bottle" and "truth or dare."

Mini Playlist: Pony - Ginuwine Bad Dog - Neon Hitch Truth or Dare - Marianas Trench Wildfire - Marianas Trench

Matt is bored. And he knows that, when he’s bored, bad things happen. Well. Fun things. But bad things. Most recently he held a pie eating content, and that ended up with a $1,500 cleaning bill Tony was not pleased about.

“You’re all twitchy,” Nick says. “Why are you all twitchy?”

Matt shrugs, trying to get comfortable. It fails. “My leg has a mind of its own. I can’t make it stop.”

“Are you about to have a terrible idea?” Nick asks. He studies Matt. “Please don’t do the thing you did in TNA.”

“That’s absurd. I would never do that again.”

Nick raises an eyebrow. “Except for when you did it in New Japan.”

Matt considers it. Promotion wide Spin-the-Bottle was fun, but expected. Matt lets the idea form in front of him: spin the bottle is so out of date. He’s got a better idea.

“Oh, no, don’t make that face,” Nick groans. He drops his head in his hands. “What did I do in a past life to get you as my brother?”

“Sainthood, probably,” Matt says. He’s not bored anymore. He’s excited. “I’ll be back in a minute. Maybe.”

Nick throws a shoe at his back, but it’s not one of the thumbtack ones, so Matt considers it a win.

He googles, “Truths and Dares,” and collects things he thinks might work for the particular demographic he works with. He types some in the notes app, because the wifi in this venue is notoriously weak. He feels a little bad for the first people he runs into. They’ll be the guinea pigs to determine the most interesting options.

Orange Cassidy is refilling his water bottle in the hallway when Matt slides up next to him. “Hi!” Matt gets a nod in response. “Truth or dare?”

Orange lowers his glasses, staring blankly at Matt.

“Truth or dare?” Matt asks again. Maybe he didn’t hear.

“Um. Truth?”

“Who do you think is,” Matt checks his phone, “the hottest person at work?”

“Luchasaurus,” Orange replies. He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t think. Just answers.

“Oh,” Matt says. “Okay. Not my type, but I appreciate the fact that you aren’t worried it might make you a furry.”

“The heart wants what it wants,” Orange says, sliding his glasses back on. “So does the dick.”

Matt shrugs. “Fair. You know where the rest of your buddies are?”

“Got food,” Orange answers. “Went out.”

Matt watches him walk away. “Okay,” he says. “Good question. Backup in an emergency.” He’s a little perturbed that the Best Friends clan might not be an option, but there was no guarantee Danhausen would take his dare to paint Trent’s face to match his, so he cuts his losses. He’ll hit as many people as possible, and will intentionally not think about the person who he’d like to ask a Truth the most.

While looking at his phone, he almost trips over something. “Hey!”

“Stop staring at that phone,” says Christopher Daniels, looking like a disappointed dad. “You kids…”

“I’m thirty-seven,” Matt snaps back. “Truth or dare?”

Christopher blinks. “Excuse me?”

Matt is wondering if his experience with truth or dare with his friends as a kid was a more unique experience than he’d thought. “Truth or dare,” he repeats. “Did they not have that when you were a kid?”

“One of these days I’m going to kill you,” Daniels grumbles. “Do I have to?”

“You don’t have to,” Matt says, making sure to get his eyes all big and moony, “but it’s fun.”

“Don’t – quit looking at me like that. Who do you think I am, Page?”

“It doesn’t work on him anymore!” Matt fires back. It’s only a second later that he realizes he just gave away his secret weapon. “Never mind. Are you doing it or not?”

“Dare,” Daniels says, like it’s torn out of him. “If it’ll get you to stop.”

“I dare you to go up to the first person you see and twerk on them.” He wiggles his phone. “I will provide the music of your choice.”

“Twerk?!” he half shrieks. “Matt, I am fifty-two fucking years old. I don’t twerk.”

Matt frowns. “Let me look something up.” He googles it for a while. “Okay, internet says you have to do a Truth.”

“I’m not telling you shit, because you’ll ask about upcoming contracts.”

Matt shrugs. “Fair.” He scrolls again. “Okay, if you say no to both, I think you have to kiss me.” Technically, the rule is the person is “out”. But Matt isn’t comfortable letting people have an automatic escape from his game, and if they really don’t want to kiss him, he obviously won’t make them. Plus, Daniels is a bit of a sucker for stupid dares, and Matt’s interested to see how far he can push him.

Daniels’ jaw tenses. “Fine. Tell me who I’m twerking on.”

The first room is Tony’s office, and Matt could almost skip with glee. “What song do you want?”

“I hate you,” Daniels grumbles. “Put on Pony by Ginuwine.”

“Good choice!”

Daniels walks into Tony’s room like he belongs here. Matt peeks in after him. Tony looks up from his computer. “Hi, Chris, what’s up?”

With a sigh, Daniels nods to Matt, who cues the music. In a feat of almost miserable effort, Daniels wiggles his butt in a shameful facsimile of a twerk.

“That’s enough,” Matt says, as gently as possible. He looks over at Tony. “I – I don’t want to put you through more.”

“May I ask what is going on?” Tony says. “Actually…” He pauses, pressing a button on the phone. “Okay, the call’s muted. Thanks for that, by the way.”

Matt shrugs. “I’m playing Truth or Dare. You, Tony?”

“Truth.”

Matt huffs. “Boring. Who’s your favorite wrestler on the roster?”

Tony looks at Matt like he’s a particularly pathetic street rat. “Kenny. You know that. We’ve talked about it.”

“It’s in your book,” Daniels offers.

Matt walks out of the room, defeated. He screwed himself on that one.

“Hell fucking no.”

“Please?” Matt asks, chasing after Ethan Page. “Come on!”

“No,” Ethan says. “I am not playing Truth or Dare.”

“If you say no, you have to kiss me.”

Ethan turns around. “You are a fucking demon.”

“So will you play?” Matt asks. He turns on the eyes.

Ethan laughs, directly in his face. “Truth or dare? Okay. Truth.”

“Uh,” Matt scrolls his phone, looking for something decent. “Who is your least favorite person –”

“You.”

“I didn’t finish!”

“Sucks for you,” Ethan says. He walks backward. “Thanks for the game, Matt. Hope you lose your next match.”

Matt kicks a trash can, stubs his toe, and limps off to catering, where his mood immediately turns. There’s a lot of people in here.

“Hi.” Matt sits down next to Tay and Anna. “Truth or dare?”

They turn to each other, look at each other for a moment, then turn back to him. In perfect sync. Matt is mildly terrified. “Truth,” Anna says.

Tay laughs. “Baby. I say dare.”

“Okay, Anna,” Matt looks through the list, “if you had to punch anybody in the room, who would it be?”

Anna scans the area, tapping her chin. Her eyes land on the Blackpool table. “Yuta,” she decides. “He’s too, I don’t know, pleasant. A fist to the face would make me like him more, I think.”

“Weird logic, but okay.” Matt turns to Tay. “With their consent, of course, kiss somebody in the room.”

Matt is expecting a peck on the cheek, probably for Anna. Maybe a tiny kiss for Sammy, if he comes in.

Nope.

Tay stands, grabs Matt’s face. “You?”

He should have seen this coming. “Fine.” Tay plants a kiss directly on his mouth. It’s over before he realizes, and he doesn’t even get a chance to kiss back.

“Interesting choice,” he says, trying to put his face back where it belongs. “Um, why me?”

“You were the closest,” Tay says, shrugging. “And Sammy’s on the other side of hotel, so…”

“Oh,” says Anna, interrupting, “Jack’s here.” She waves him over, and he slides in next to her, arm around her waist. “Hi. Matt’s doing Truth or Dare.”

Jungle Boy tilts his head to the side. “Dare. Obviously.”

Matt thinks about it. “I dare you to do a lap dance on somebody in the room who isn’t Anna.”

“Lame.” He looks around. “I get to choose the music?”

Matt nods. “Provided by me, of course. Just let me know what song and I’ll play it.”

Jack looks from the Blackpool table, over to The Firm’s table. It is only then that Matt realizes how much his adult life feels like high school. “Yuta!”

“What?”

“Can I give you a lap dance?”

Yuta wrinkles his nose. “No. Unequivocally no.”

“Please?”

“Still no. Let me eat my lunch.”

Jungle Boy turns back to Matt. “Well. Sucks for you.”

“What?”

“Babe,” Jungle Boy says, turning to Anna, “what’s the sexiest song?”

“Bad Dog by Neon Hitch,” she answers automatically.

Matt shrugs. He doesn’t know the song, but the title is…well, to quote Isiah Cassidy, sus. “Odd choice, but to each their own.” He chooses the song on Spotify. “Who are you lap dancing?”

“You, obviously.”

Thus begins 3 of the strangest minutes of Matt’s thirty-seven years. Jungle Boy isn’t exactly full of rhythm, and he doesn’t exactly have the ass to make this a particularly riveting lap dance. But it’s something to do, and Matt’s doing a great job of getting people to play his game, so he figures he doesn’t have anything to complain about.

The song ends, and Jungle Boy stops dancing and immediately goes stiff again. He sits back next to Anna. “Okay. I’m going to, uh, eat my dinner now.” He nods at Matt. “Later.”

Matt stands up. “Later. Uh, if they try to kill me,” he nods over to the Blackpool table, “call Nick or something, okay?”

“Sure,” Anna says, but she’s texting, and he’s pretty sure she didn’t even hear him. Oh, well.

He plops himself next to Wheeler Yuta, who pauses midchew. “Hi.”

Yuta swallows, eyeing Matt. “What are you up to?”

“Why do you think I’m up to anything?”

Yuta gestures to Jungle Boy, Anna, and Tay. “Well, for starters, Tay kissed you, and then Jungle Boy did a weird little stripper dance on you.” He shrugs. “Common denominator is you, man.”

“Okay, fine. I’m playing Truth or Dare.”

“Dare,” Yuta says automatically. Mox laughs, dropping his head, while Claudio rolls his eyes over a bowl of soup.

“Kid, you gotta stop giving Matt an open invitation. He’ll take it.” He wiggles his eyebrows at Matt. “Won’t he?”

“That was once, and we were high on adrenaline after Double or Nothing,” Matt fires back.

Mox shrugs, grinning as he shovels more pasta into his mouth. “Fun, though.”

Yuta looks between the two of them, strangely intrigued. “You guys have kissed?”

“Yes, not the point,” Matt says. He’s got to focus Yuta back so he can knock out the rest of the cafeteria before people start to leave. “Okay, dare? Um,” he searches online, but gives up quickly. The world in front of him gave a decent prompt. “I dare you to shove all of that loaf of bread in your mouth.”

“This is my bread,” Claudio grumbles.

“Tough shit,” Yuta says, and immediately shoves the whole hunk in his mouth. Like it’s nothing. Matt wonders what the hell the Blackpool Combat Club gets up to when they’re not in combat. Yuta’s chewing is a little labored, but he manages to chew and swallow it without much problem after a few moments. He swallows once more, then sticks out his tongue.

“Ew,” Matt says, wrinkling his nose. He turns to Claudio. “Truth or dare?”

“Not him yet,” Yuta says. “If Mox kissed you, can I kiss you?”

Matt blinks at him. “Um, that was back in 2019, so it’s not like a, a BCC initiation.”

“Oh, not because of that. Mox and I are in a battle to determine who is the best kisser and you’d be an impartial judge.”

Matt has the impulse to ask what in the eff that means, and also, again, what the fuck is Blackpool doing on company time, but he refocuses. He has a match soon. He can’t waste time. “I mean. I ask you for a favor, you ask me for one.” He points to the water. “Just, I don’t know, rinse your mouth out a little first.”

Yuta nods, chugs about a gallon of water and shakes his shoulders out. “Alright.” He leans down and kisses Matt gently, a sweet press. It feels almost blasphemous to call this brush of lips the same as whatever the fuck he and Moxley did behind a giant poker chip way back then.

Yuta’s smiling when he pulls away. “Good?”

“Very different from Mox,” he muses. “For instance, you don’t taste like cigarettes.”

Mox drops his fork. “That can’t count.”

“It does,” Matt says and, just to be annoying, “and Yuta’s not all sweaty.”

“I’d just made my debut on a fuckin’ lit stage! In May!”

Matt shrugs. “Yuta wins. Now, Claudio, Truth or Dare?”

“No, no, no,” Mox interrupts again. Matt’s going to get nowhere. There’s only so many hours in a day. “I get another shot. That other kiss was years ago.”

“Oh, my god, fine,” Matt says, rolling his eyes. “Kiss me, you fool, or whatever. Clock is ticking.”

Mox leans in and presses a kiss gentler than Matt’d thought him capable of. But he still wouldn’t call it gentle. Mox kisses with single minded hunger, lips demanding and firm. They don’t taste like smoke, though Mox tastes a bit like chicken soup. He pulls away. “There. Better?”

“Better,” Matt says, “but you taste like soup this time, so I’m still gonna have to give it to Yuta.”

“Hah!” Yuta barks, and straight up points a finger in Mox’s face. “Told ya!”

Mox rolls his eyes. “Asshole.”

“Claudio, truth or dare?” Matt says.

“Truth.”

Matt scrolls his phone. “What’s your favorite fantasy?”

“Winning the world title,” Claudio says, almost automatically.

“I think – well, I guess it’s answerer interpretation, isn’t it.” Matt stands. “Thank you for your time, boys, as weird as it was.” He pauses. “Uh, Claudio?”

“Yes?” He doesn’t look pleased.

“Do you have stakes in the weird kissing battle between…” He trails off, pointing to Mox and Yuta, who have gone back to eating their lunch like they hadn’t just asked Matt to settle a bet between the two of them.

Claudio sighs. “Yuta won in my final review, too.”

“I shouldn’t have asked. Alright.” He walks over to the Firm’s table, where Stokeley Hathaway looks highly displeased at his arrival. “What?”

“Truth or dare.”

“Truth.”

At least it’s moving quick than BCC. “What’s your greatest fear?”

“Being stuck in conversations with idiots my whole life,” Stokely fires back.

“I’ll take it. You,” he turns to Lee Moriarty, “truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“Read out loud the last text message you sent.”

Lee pulls out his phone. “No, but you can if you want,” he reads. “To Big Bill, if it matters.”

“Thank you. Mr. Bill.”

“You can call me Big Bill.”

Matt nods. “Okay. Big Bill, truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

Matt scrolls the list. “Oh, this one is fun. Yell out the first word that comes to mind at the top of your lungs.”

“Potpourri!” Big Bill booms, and it staggers Matt. For just a second though.

“What the fuck goes on in that big ass head of yours?” Stokely asks, shaking his head. He turns back to Matt, somehow looking disappointed. “Alright. You finished?”

Matt nods. “Yep.” He walks to the exit, and runs right into Samoa Joe. “Oh, hi! Truth or dare?”

“Why?”

Matt shrugs. “I was bored. Truth or dare?”

Joe practically levels him with a stony star. This might have been a mistake. “I will throw you across this room.”

Matt seriously considers trying again. He has that street match later, anyway… But no. Bad idea. “Alright, suit yourself.” And he makes his way down the hallway.

He gets to his normal locker room, the one he now shares only with Nick, since Kenny came back. Since he left. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Nick says. “You seem a little less jittery than before.”

“Truth or dare is fun,” Matt says. “Speaking of which.”

Nick sighs. “Yeah, okay. Dare.”

“Ooh! You’re being fun today.” He scrolls the list, and finds the perfect one. “Oh, this is good. Show me the most embarrassing photo on your phone.”

Nick whines. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Or, I could just grab your phone and -” Matt darts out to grab Nick’s phone, but he pulls it away at the last second.

“God, okay, fine,” he whines. “Give me a sec.”

A minute so later, which Matt spends searching for other good dares and truths, Nick sighs. “Here.” He turns the phone around and shows it to Matt. It’s not that embarrassing – a photo of a particularly messy botch from the previous match with Death Triangle.

“Oh, that’s not bad.” He pats Nick on the cheek. “Thanks, baby brother.”

They gear up and walk down to Kenny’s dressing room, where he’s half asleep on the couch. “You awake, buddy?” Nick asks, reaching out to gently shake Kenny’s arm.

He wakes up slowly. “Time to get ready?”

Matt nods. “You forget your alarm again.”

“Apparently,” Kenny mumbles. “Sorry about that. Won’t be long.”

It isn’t. Kenny is ready in a couple of minutes, and they are ready for their match. Matt gets a Brutalizer, Nick gets a boot to the face, and Kenny probably breaks his ass pulling off a risky One Winged Angel. But they won. Even though Matt tapped, they still won.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” Kenny says, patting Matt’s shoulder a little too hard. “Oops. Sorry.”

“Nah, you’re good.” Matt rolls his shoulder. “And I tapped! I almost made us lose.”

“I had your back,” Kenny says. “Besides, all that matters is that we won. One more in two weeks.” He winces. “I think I’ll enjoy that time off, actually.”

Matt hums in agreement. The ache in his shoulder is almost completely done by the time the clock hits ten. Kenny’s ass is solid, pun intended, Nick doesn’t have anything worse than a lump in his forehead, and Matt decides that he’s allowed to turn his attention back on his own brand of nonsense now.

“Hey, I’m not gonna bother with the trainer. I’m already feeling better.” He grins. “Anybody want to come with me to play truth or dare?”

Kenny shakes his head. “I want to go monitor Rampage, make sure everything closed out Dynamite okay.” He wiggles, wincing. “And maybe sit on some ice.”

“And I,” Nick says, “will do anything in my power to avoid being involved in your weird…” He trails off, making a bizarre hand gesture. “Well, your whatever it is. So I’m going with Kenny.”

Matt shrugs. “Suit yourself. But first, Kenny,” he grins, like everything is the way they were before the injuries, “truth or dare?”

“Die in a fire.”

“Not an option,” Matt says. “Truth or dare?”

“Fine,” Kenny says, slowly lifting himself off the table. “Truth.”

“Who on the roster would you let kiss you, if they asked nicely?”

Kenny considers, wincing as he takes his first few steps. “Jesus, don’t drop ass first on a table.” He takes a few steps, and loosens, just a little. “Probably Rush,” Kenny decides. “I like his hair.”

Matt nods. “Cool. Interesting choice. Not where I would have gone with it.”

On the way to main locker room, he bumps into the Dark Order.

“Great timing,” he leans against the wall, legs out to make sure the Dark Order don’t make the mistake of thinking that they can escape this conversation. “Truth or dare. Let’s start with Silver.”

“Dare,” he says. He looks way too excited. “You gonna make me suck a dick? Lick somebody’s stinky butthole?”

Matt involuntarily scoots a little further away. “Gross, no. What in the world do you guys get up to?”

“So much,” Uno says, sounding dazed.

“Silver, I dare you to text ‘I love you’ to whoever posted most recently in your Instagram feed.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Silver says, pulling his phone out from his trunks. Matt reminds himself to never shake his hand without Purel on hand. “Hello, Miss Grande.” He types it out, presses send and shows Matt. “Maybe she’ll pick up some tickets to the gun show and get up on this.”

“I’m pretty sure she’s married now,” Reynolds muses. “I choose truth.”

“Who’s your least favorite member of the Dark Order?”

“Oh, that’s easy.” Alex waves it away. “Five. He was the worst.” He pauses. “Actually, wait. I think my least favorite is Ten now. Because of, you know, the whole betrayal thing.”

John exhales. “I never thought I’d see the day when Five wasn’t last in something.”

“So, Uno, how about you?”

“Dare.”

“I dare you, to,” Matt checks his list again, wishing he could just memorize the whole thing, “to send a sext to the last person in your phone, alphabetically.”

“Oh, well, that’ll be,” he holds up his phone, “Wheeler Yuta.”

“This’ll be fun,” John says, “tell him you want to use his abs to do laundry.”

Uno makes an appraising noise. “Honestly, that’s better than what I was worried you’d suggest.”

“I was gonna say ‘ask him to suck your Moby dick’, but I figured that was over the line.”

“Good call,” Matt says. Uno types and sends the message. “Keep me posted. It’ll be fascinating to see where this goes next.”

He makes his way down to Death Triangle’s area, but they’re gone. No sign of them. “Hello?” he calls into the locker room. “Anybody else in here?”

“Hello hello,” says Bryan Danielson, popping out from the showers. He’s fully dressed, though, so Matt doesn’t need to have a panic attack about that. “Need something?”

“I’m playing truth or dare,” Matt says. “Which one?”

“Truth, I guess,” Bryan says, fixing his hair in the mirror.

“Who’s your favorite person on the roster?”

Bryan keeps adjusting pieces of his hair as he thinks. “Probably Mox,” he decides. “But don’t tell him I said that.”

“You’re secret’s safe with me,” Matt says, and he salutes, which he couldn’t explain if a knife was to his throat.

He walks to the other side, expecting to see it empty, but Hook is sitting there with Top Flight. “Oh – didn’t think anybody else was in here.”

“We’re trying to chill,” Dante says. His eyes are closed as he leans against the locker. “So, if you’re here to kick our ass or yell at us, wait, like, ten minutes.”

“Not any of that,” Matt says. “I’m playing truth or dare. Want to play?”

Hook takes a headphone out, considers Matt. “Truth,” he says. Matt thinks this may be the most Hook’s said directly to him. Like, ever.

“Okay, um,” he gives up on his phone, because he genuinely has a question, “favorite wrestler of all time?”

“My dad,” he answers. He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t explain, just relaxes back against the lockers. But his eyes stay open, this time.

“Alright, Dante,” he nods to him. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare. I’m always up for something stupid.”

Matt breaks into a slow grin. “Go up to Danielson – he’s on the other side – and start dancing on him.”

Dante sighs. “Should have seen that one coming. Alright, fine. Let’s go.”

Hook grins and breaks out his phone, recording it as Dante walks over. Danielson is on his way out, but Dante catches up to him and immediately starts doing what appears to be the Dougie. Bryan is not phased, and simply walks out.

“That was anticlimactic,” Matt mutters. “Alright, Darius. What’s your poison?”

He tilts his head a little. “Truth.”

“Did you consider leaving wrestling after your accident?” But it wasn’t Matt who asked. It was Dante.

Darius’ eyes widen. “Not for a second.” He looks at Dante, who’s slumped, just a little. “Hey, bud, I promise. I wasn’t going to leave.”

“But you could have,” Dante says. “You probably should have.” His eyes are suddenly big and sad, and he looks so, so young. He remembers getting that same look from Nick all those years ago, when things weren’t going well and Matt was about to quit.

Matt stands, shuffling out, because he’s not needed for this. He hears the cheers from the Rampage taping going off, so he guesses he’s shit out of luck for anybody on that show. He ducks into the corners of the dressing rooms and the prep rooms, looks for Swerve and his guys, but nobody’s there. He peeks in catering again – no one. Everybody’s either working or back at a hotel.

He catches Wardlow on his way back toward his EVP room, and taps his shoulder.

“Hey.” Wardlow turns to him. “I like the haircut.”

Wardlow touches it, fingertips pulling at strands that are no longer there. Matt remembers doing that when he and Nick first started for TNA, when they made them Max and Jeremy. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Truth or dare?”

“Did I miss something?” Wardlow asks, looking around. “This for your vlog?”

“No,” Matt says. “I got bored and I’m asking everyone. Getting some good gossip.”

“Like what?” Huh. Matt had not pegged Wardlow for a nosy Nancy, but Matt Jackson is always willing to dish out the knowledge he obtains.

“Well,” Matt says, “I learned that Jungle Boy can’t do a lap dance to save his life.” He thinks about other interesting details. “Oh, and Hook’s favorite wrestler is Taz, which is expected, but nice. Wheeler Yuta can shove, like, a whole loaf of bread in his mouth at once.”

Wardlow nods in approval. “Okay, that one’s actually kind of impressive.”

“I know,” Matt says, “Like, I know a lot of bread is air, but a lot of bread is, well, bread.”

Wardlow laughs, something that is both confusing and comforting to Matt. He feels unlikely to be powerslammed into the wall. “Alright. I pick truth.”

“What do you think is your biggest mistake?” It’s a rough question, but Warlow seems…well, he seems like he might need it. MJF wasn’t particularly kind to him, and Samoa Joe was a giant jerk tonight. Nobody checks on Wardlow. Somebody should talk to him.

Wardlow sighs, leans against the wall. “Well,” he say, “I’d say helping MJF all that time. I made the mistake of putting money over morals.” He smiles. “Not doing that again.”

“Well, thank you for your candor,” Matt says, doing his best to be chivalrous. “I won’t share that if you don’t want to.”

“I mean, you can,” Wardlow says with a shrug. “I feel like most people can assume, at this point.”

He waves Matt off, wishing him a happy new year, and Matt makes his way back to his room. There’s only one person left from Dynamite that he really, really wishes he’d caught. And it’s only then that Matt realized this was all an excuse. His shoulders slump, like a marionette with cut strings, and he pushes into the EVP room with Nick with the energy of a dying plankton.

“You look miserable,” Nick says, a little too cheerfully. “You get punched in the face for daring somebody to, like, make out with you or something?”

“I did not dare anybody to kiss me, thank you very much.” He decidedly does not mention the thing with Jungle Boy. Or Tay. Or the little thing with Yuta. Or the thing with Mox. Which sort of wasn’t a kiss, as much as a mouth attack. “And no, it’s because it’s been a long day and I’m tired.”

“That’s not your tired face,” Nick says. “Actually. That’s, uh. That’s your weird little temper tantrum face.”

“Shut up,” Matt says, He dips his head, trying to cover whatever Nick thinks he can read there.

“Who was it?” Nick asks, too knowing as always. “Which sane person decided not to play your game?”

“Samoa Joe, but that’s not the issue,” Matt says. He can feel that Nick is going to keep pressing, kep asking. So he caves. “I couldn’t find Page.”

“Ethan?”

Matt lifts his head up. “No.”

Nick exhales, slumping against his chair. “Man, you really are a glutton for punishment.”

“It’s a game!” Matt doesn’t know why he feels so defensive about this. “I didn’t want him to feel left out.”

Nick claps him on the shoulder. “You really miss him, don’t you.”

“I don’t want to,” Matt mumbles. “But yeah. I guess I miss what we all used to have, you know?”

They sit silently for a little, packing up slowly, until Matt realizes he hasn’t eaten since five.

“Catering might still be open,” he says. “I’ll bring you a cookie.”

The walk to the catering area is quiet, since anybody who isn’t working Rampage is gone or packing up, and he’s halfway through a tray full of a smattering of snacks when he hears it. The familiar tap on the tile floors.

“Hangman!” Matt scrambles to his feet, practically tripping over them to get out of the cafeteria and out to Adam. “Adam! Wait!”

He turns around slowly. Hesitantly. Matt doesn’t like it. “Matt?”

“Yeah, hi,” Matt says. He skids to a stop in front of Adam. “Hi.”

“You said that already.”

Matt can’t help but smile. “I know. Um, truth or dare?”

Adam sighs. “Not again.”

“It’s not spin the bottle this time,” Matt blurts out. “So you don’t have to kiss me.”

“I didn’t have to kiss you that time,” Adam says, leaning against his wall. “But, truth.”

Matt feels something well in him, some kind of bold tenacity. Adrenaline spikes. “Do you hate me?”

Adam slips a little bit. “What?”

Matt nods. “That’s your truth. Do you hate me?”

He’s quiet for a minute, for long enough that Matt is regretting this whole thing. Then, “No.” He adjusts his hair, tightening the bun. “No, Matty, I don’t.”

The nickname is like a kick to the heart. Or a jumpstart. Matt risks stepping closer.

“Now I get to ask you, right?”

Matt tilts his head. “You ask me?”

“That’s how the game’s played, isn’t it?” Adam asks. His fingers are pulling at his belt buckle. He’s nervous. “The last person to go always gets to ask whoever they want.”

“Nobody else has cashed in on that today, but, yeah.” Matt feels a little breathless. “Yeah, you can ask me.”

“Truth or dare?” His voice is low, breathy. Matt remembers that tone of voice. Remembers when it used to meet him in the middle of the night in a shitty hotel room, used to sweep him off his feet backstage.

“Dare,” Matt whispers.

Adam steps toward Matt. “Kiss me.”

Matt nods, feeling something tighten in his chest, something that’s been begging to get touched for years. He tilts his head up, and it’s like coming home. Adam’s fingers thread through his hair where it’s fallen out of the ponytail; he slides them against the base of his head like he always used to. Matt sighs into it, settles his hands on Adam’s hips, pulls him closer. Adam makes this little sound against him as he licks at Matt’s lips. Like Matt could ever resist that sound. He goes up onto his toes trying to get better leverage, and presses Adam up against the wall. Adam’s hands lose some of their demure hesitance, and they grip at the back of Matt’s shirt. It feels like an invitation, so Matt slides his hands up Adam’s shirt, pressing at the familiar skin there.

He's missed this. He’s missed Adam. He’s missed feeling like there was something other than the ground to anchor him.

Matt fumbles with the door and twists the knob, and he pulls Adam with him into whichever room this is. He doesn’t care where it is – he just needs to be away from any questioning eyes. He realizes with a hazy sense of stupid that this is, indeed, Kenny’s dressing room. And Matt doesn’t care.

Adam’s making those little, desperate noises again, the ones that get Matt hard in his pants so fast he gets dizzy, and Matt’s only option is to scrabble at Adam’s shirt and yank it up over his head.

“Missed you,” Adam growls, biting along Matt’s jaw. His hands have found their way up Matt’s back, under his shirt, burning a path where his fingertips skitter and scratch. “Want you.”

Matt can’t do much other than make a weird little murmur in response, and he hopes it’s enough to tell Adam that he wants him, too. He pulls back, just a little, and hears Adam make a half pathetic desperate noise.

“I’m coming back,” Matt says, and he pulls of his shirt, throwing it somewhere in the room. He grabs at the hem of Adam’s shirt, already messed up, and yanks it up. “Rawhide Kid?” he asks. “What…?”

“It’s a gay cowboy,” Adam says, with a little laugh. “Strangely appropriate for right now, huh.”

Matt nods in agreement, then steps back into Adam’s space. He goes for Adam’s belt, doesn’t know what he’s getting, but he wants anything Adam is willing to give. Adam’s belt flies across the room, Matt’s pants fall, and Adam grabs him around the waist. He hauls him up and presses him up against the door as he pulls the pants off his leg. Matt’s vision nearly whites out.

“Forgot you could do that,” Matt laughs, head tilted back as Adam bites a bruise into his skin. “And I’ve bulked up.”

“I noticed,” Adam says. He moves down to Matt’s bicep, nipping. “Been lifting?”

“Uh huh,” Matt says. He rolls his hip up against Adam, desperate for friction. He’s rewarded with Adam’s low laugh, the kind Matt only gets to hear with they’re like this. “Come on, take your pants off.”

Adam turns and, with a hand on Matt’s back, carries him to the couch. He drops Matt, and it gives Matt a truly magnificent view of Adam looming over him, undoing his belt.

“Got anything?” Adam asks. “It’s not back in our Ring of Honor days, not sure if spit’s gonna do the job.”

Matt feels a zing of heat course through him. “Uh, this is Kenny’s room, so if you go through his stuff, he’s bound to have something.”

“Right,” Adam says. “Going through my professional ex’s stuff so I can fuck my other ex. Totally normal.”

“Shut up and get in me,” Matt demands. Adam does shut up, but not without an eye roll. Matt doesn’t agree with Adam – spit’s worked fine for him the last few times – so he works himself down on his own finger while Adam searches.

“Okay, I think I found – oh, holy fuck.” Adam sounds like the breath has been punched out of him. “Oh, god, you look so pretty doing that.”

“Had to,” Matt gasps, writhing against the press of his own finger inside him. “You were taking too long.”

Adam hums in interest, then leans down, batting Matt’s finger out of the way. “Let me.” He presses a kiss to Matt’s bare thigh, then slicks his fingers. He’s always so gentle, this way. Kisses up and down Matt’s body, peppered to his lips, his chest, his legs. He starts off slow, takes a while to go rough enough, fast enough for Matt. It’s not in his brand to rush things, he thinks.

“More,” Matt gasps, “please. More.”

“Well, only ‘cause you beg so pretty.” Adam gently slides a second finger into Matt, twisting them so it sends shockwaves up Matt’s spine. He can’t help it – he grinds back down on Adam’s fingers, letting out a desperate moan. “Forgot how loud you get when I’m inside you,” Adam murmurs. He moves up Matt’s body, pressing a kiss to his lips like he’s drowning for Matt’s oxygen. “What do you want?”

“Wanna – wanna ride you,” Matt gasps, grinding down with each thrust from Adam.

Adam laughs. “I could make a cowboy joke here.” He teases a third finger around Matt’s rim, then slides it in easy, drawing out a sound of desperation from somewhere inside Matt’s chest. “But you seem otherwise occupied.”

Matt can’t speak anywhere, just lets out a bunch of vowels, and Adam laughs again. Matt will do anything to keep that there. He leans up, moaning at the way it shifts Adam’s fingers inside him, and pulls Adam to him. Adam slides his fingers out.

“Why the eff would you do that?” Matt asks, and he sounds petulant even to his own ears.

“Because you want to ride me, and that’s not gonna work if I’m stuck doing this standing crouching thing.” He flops down, hard, next to Matt, and rips open the condom, rolling it over himself. Matt’s about to die a little, when Adam pats his thighs. “Ride ‘em – ”

“Oh, no,” Matt says, throwing a leg over Adam’s. “No stupid jokes. We’re stopping that right now.”

“Just one?” God, Adam looks cute when he pouts, lips all pink and eyes shiny blue-green.

Matt decides argument is unnecessary, grabs Adam’s cock, and lowers himself down. It’s a strategy that’s never failed.

Adam drops his head backward with an audible thunk. “Christ on bike,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “I forgot how good you feel.”

Matt’s eyes flutter shut as he does his first rocking. “I didn’t forget you,” he mumbles. There’s certain things you can’t replicate on your own, no matter how hard you try. “You – oh – always fit me so good.”

Adam hums in agreement, starting with slow, tantalizing circles of the hips. Matt rocks, memorizing everything. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever have this again and, last time, he didn’t know it was the last time. This time, he’s prepared.

Adam slides a hand up to the back of his neck, into his hair. He pulls Matt down to kiss him, deep and dirty, and he picks up the speed of his thrusts. This is what Matt really missed – the way Adam just lets it go, gets a little wild with everything he gives. Matt starts by trying to lead, at least a little, but Adam’s desperate with it, and all Matt can really do is grip the back of the couch and press open mouthed kisses to Adam’s gasping mouth.

His cock is caught between their bellies, catching on Adam’s skin, and it’s too much and not enough at once. He presses his lips to Adam’s forehead. He doesn’t know how to tell him what he’s feeling. He hopes he can show it.

Adam slows down a little, one arm braced on the couch and the other around Matt’s back. Matt remembers all of this. They’ve just never had the chance to do this in such a nice room. Before he can catch himself. Matt laughs.

“What?” Adam asks, laughing along with Matt.

“Just – Kenny’s room,” Matt says. “I don’t know. It’s funny.”

Adam hums, but he must not be feeling the humor, as he speeds up and gets his hand on Matt and very suddenly Matt has other things to focus on.

It hits Matt like a train, when he comes all over Adam’s hand. Adam groans, “Fuck, you’re so, I…” But he trails off into a wordless moan as he comes, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut. Matt forgot how good Adam looks like this.

He’s got a giant smile on his lips as he eases his eyes open. “I missed you,” Adam half slurs, reaching up to brush hair from Matt’s forehead. “God, I missed you.”

Matt shifts, hips screaming at him, and flinches when Adam slips out of him. He’ll be feeling that tomorrow, that’s for damned sure. “I missed you, too.” He’s not sure what happens next, the reality of this crashing over him when Adam stands.

“Don’t panic,” he says, looking more confident than Matt feels, “just throwing this away.” He walks into the bathroom and comes right back out. “I’m not running out on you.”

“Oh. Cool. That’s good.” Matt really, really doesn’t know what comes next, but he’s been getting yesses almost the whole day so he figures luck is on his side. He reaches out, and Adam dives into his arms, pressing Matt to the couch. Matt settles into it, feels cozy when Adam nuzzles his neck and throws his legs over Matt’s lap.

“Forgot how cute you are, after,” Matt murmurs, arms around Adam’s shoulders.

“Shut up and let me cuddle,” Adam says back, but there’s no fire behind it, no anger. They stay there for longer than they probably should, testing the silence from time to time with little nothings, comments.

Well, until they hear footsteps. Matt manages to get his jeans and boxers back on, Adam his boxers only, by the time the door opens.

“What – what the hell?” Kenny doesn’t look angry, exactly. Anger would look a lot less confused. “I really hope I don’t know what you just did.”

“Take a wild guess, Kenneth,” Matt says, pulling his jeans on over his boxers. “Not like I haven’t run in on you and, well a lot of people, come to think of it.”

“How am I being slutshamed when you two are the ones fucking on my couch,” Kenny mutters.

“I’m not shaming that you’re a slut,” Matt says, shirt back on. The neck hole is super stretched, though. Hopefully a good wash will fix it. “I’m just commenting on it.”

“Can we stop saying that word?” Adam asks. Matt turns to see him doing his belt, and it sends that zing up his spine again. “And, uh, hi, Kenny.” He puts out his hand, winces, then pulls it behind his back.

Kenny shakes his head. “I don’t need to know the details.” He walks over to his stuff. “Oh – did you.” He cuts himself off, head snapping up. “Matt, did you steal my lube?”

Sheepishly, Matt finds the lube where they’d thrown it. “Here.”

Kenny makes a strange noise as he sort of tosses it in his hands, then throws it into his bag. “Don’t give me the condom back, for the love of god.”

“Already gone,” Adam says, grinning. “Thanks for the assist by the way.” The bastard winks at Kenny, Matt’s wondering if he’s physically able to get hard again just from that.

Kenny makes that weird noise again. “I should be annoyed by this.”

“Maybe,” Matt says, “but you hate being annoyed at me. It’s inconvenient.”

In tandem, Adam and Kenny groan in frustration. The cut it off at the same time, looking at each other in surprise.

“Moving on from that,” Adam says, starting to blush. “Anybody see my shirt?”

“Back of the couch,” Matt and Kenny say at the same time.

“Alright, well, I hate that,” Adam says. “Give it to me.”

Matt snorts. “Here.” Adam takes the shirt and pulls it back on, much to Matt’s chagrin. “So,” Matt says, “I was, like, in the middle of dinner when I heard Hangman walking down the hallway, so I’m starving. Anybody want to get food?”

“Shouldn’t this be weird?” Adam asks. “I mean,” he points between the three of them, “with everything, this should be weird.”

Kenny’s smile is more gentle than Matt would have expected. “Let’s save awkward for tomorrow. I didn’t get dinner either.”

Matt begins a spirited argument with the two of them about which is better, Denny’s or IHOP, and, for the first time in years, he feels whole.

The afterglow, though. That gets ruined fast.

“Where the eff were you?!” Nick asks, looking panicked in the hallway. “You haven’t answered your phone in, like, forty-five minutes!”

“I was busy,” Matt says, and he watches Nick get it as his eyes go to where Adam’s and Matt’s hands are linked.

“Oh, here we go,” Nick says, but he’s smiling, so Matt thinks he might be okay.

“Goin’ to IHOP,” Adam says. “Wanna come with?”

“What if we go to Cracker Barrel?” Matt asks, the idea fully formed before he was finished speaking.

Kenny puts his hands on his hips. “Huh. You know, I haven’t had Cracker Barrel in, what years.”

“Me either,” Nick adds.

Adam beams over at Matt. “Cracker Barrel. Just like old times.”

#Matt Jackson #HangMatt #There's too many people I'm not tagging anybody but the cow eyed menace #in which Sara writes #wtf i like wrestling now???

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my-music-1460 · 8 days

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Music for Mental Health: How Songs Eased Anxiety During the Pandemic

The COVID-19 pandemic triggered a global mental health crisis, with millions of people worldwide grappling with increased levels of anxiety, depression, and isolation. Lockdowns, social distancing, and uncertainty about the future left many feeling emotionally overwhelmed. As traditional outlets for stress relief, such as social gatherings and physical activities, were restricted, people turned to alternative ways to cope with their emotions. During this challenging period, music emerged as a powerful tool for mental health support. Whether it was through curated playlists, live-streamed performances, or creating music at home, many found that music could ease their anxieties and provide much-needed comfort.

Throughout history, music has always been a universal medium for expressing emotion and finding solace during difficult times, but its role during the COVID-19 pandemic was especially profound. This article explores the mental health benefits of music during pandemics, focusing on how it became a crucial form of therapy for those affected by the emotional and psychological turmoil caused by COVID-19.

1. The Science Behind Music and Stress Relief

It’s well-documented that music has a direct impact on our emotions and physiological responses. During times of stress, such as a pandemic, the body’s natural response is to release cortisol, the stress hormone. Elevated cortisol levels can lead to increased anxiety, feelings of restlessness, and difficulty in concentrating. Music, however, has been shown to help reduce these levels, allowing individuals to relax and find peace.

Several studies conducted during the pandemic highlighted the therapeutic effects of music. For example, research published in Frontiers in Psychology revealed that listening to calming music could lower stress and anxiety by reducing cortisol levels and increasing dopamine, the “feel-good” hormone. This explains why so many people gravitated toward music that promoted relaxation and tranquility during lockdowns.

2. Pandemic Playlists: A Coping Mechanism

One of the more noticeable trends that emerged during the pandemic was the rise of specially curated playlists aimed at soothing anxiety and promoting positive mental health. Streaming platforms like Spotify, Apple Music, and YouTube saw a significant increase in the creation and sharing of “pandemic playlists.” These playlists often contained a mix of ambient sounds, acoustic tracks, and soft beats designed to help listeners disconnect from the chaos around them.

Popular playlist titles such as “Chill Vibes,” “Quarantine and Chill,” and “Calm Your Mind” gained millions of followers, showcasing the public’s desire for mental and emotional relief. The playlists themselves were often accompanied by descriptions encouraging self-care, mindfulness, and relaxation—activities that became central to maintaining good mental health while confined indoors.

Moreover, music genres such as lo-fi hip-hop, acoustic folk, and ambient electronic experienced a surge in popularity. Lo-fi hip-hop, in particular, became a soundtrack for many who worked or studied from home. Its repetitive and calming beats helped create a peaceful, focused environment, reducing the anxiety that came with productivity expectations in such uncertain times.

3. The Rise of Virtual Music Therapy Sessions

Beyond personal playlists, the pandemic also saw a significant increase in the use of virtual music therapy sessions. Music therapy, a well-established therapeutic practice, involves using music to address physical, emotional, cognitive, and social needs. During the pandemic, licensed music therapists adapted their practices for the virtual world, providing patients with online sessions that used music as a therapeutic tool.

For many suffering from pandemic-related mental health issues, these sessions became a vital resource. Therapists used techniques such as guided music listening, songwriting, and music improvisation to help patients process their emotions and reduce feelings of isolation. Hospitals also employed music therapy for COVID-19 patients, especially those in intensive care units (ICUs), to help ease anxiety and improve overall well-being.

Several online platforms, including Calm and Headspace, integrated music therapy sessions or music-based relaxation techniques into their offerings. These platforms allowed users to access calming music specifically curated for mindfulness and relaxation, offering a form of respite from the stressors of daily life during a global crisis.

4. Music as a Social Connector in a Time of Isolation

Another important aspect of music during pandemics is its ability to connect people emotionally, even when they are physically apart. Social isolation was one of the most difficult challenges posed by COVID-19, as many were separated from loved ones, friends, and their usual support systems. Music helped bridge this gap, creating a sense of shared experience through virtual events, group listening sessions, and social media interactions.

Artists and fans alike turned to live-streamed concerts, where thousands of people could join in virtually to watch performances in real-time. These events provided a much-needed break from isolation, giving individuals a way to experience a collective emotional release. Popular artists like John Legend, BTS, and Billie Eilish hosted virtual concerts or acoustic performances from their homes, bringing comfort to millions of fans who were unable to attend live shows.

In addition to virtual concerts, apps like Clubhouse and Discord became hubs for music lovers to gather and discuss their favorite songs, artists, and new releases. These platforms facilitated social connection around music, offering a sense of community in a time when many felt disconnected from the world.

Conclusion The COVID-19 pandemic underscored the essential role of music in maintaining mental health during periods of immense stress and uncertainty. As anxiety levels soared and traditional coping mechanisms were unavailable, people turned to music as a lifeline. Through curated playlists, virtual music therapy sessions, and social connections fostered by shared musical experiences, music provided a way for individuals to manage their mental health and find comfort amidst the chaos. The importance of music during pandemics is undeniable, and its positive effects on mental health will continue to be studied and appreciated long after the world returns to normal.

Even in the darkest times, music shines as a beacon of hope and connection. As we move forward, it's essential to remember that the therapeutic power of music can extend beyond pandemics, offering mental health support during any challenging period of life.

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goldensunset · 3 months

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> name your favorites

there is literally nothing id rather do more i fucking love vocaloid and kikuo is basically number one i put my kikuo playlist on repeat all the time. im a lil fucked up and its cathartic what of it <3 (joke)

(also i am actually studying japanese - i got into vocaloid because of that actually lol - so i instinctively use the japanese names sorry djfjsjf i promise im not trying to be pretentious thats just how i have them saved in my brain)

anyway number one is im a basic bitch with gifted kid burnout and impostor syndrome. i have never related to a song more than i do aishite aishite aishite

number two is probably fukai mori. i just Really Like the ethereal and mystical sound of that one

number three is a straight tie between the two longest ones <3

kara kara kara no kara my beloved eight minute experimental monstrosity you will always be. well duke i guess since aishite and fukai mori have you beat. whatever

and my beloved absolute-mindblowing-experience-with-stereo-headphones anagura-gurashi... ochite ochite ochite youkou yo...... ikenai ikenai samishii samishiiiiiii......... seriously i love how with headphones the two voices come from different ears and the music sounds like its coming from behind you... dont fall in the holeeeee

i have a particular soft spot for kimi ga shinde mo yurushite ageru because of how soft and genuine it sounds. i also like how it can be interpreted several different ways but lbr thats just the joy of kikuo in general lmfao

O LIGHT. o light makes me actively insane. the fucking accordion break amidst a near operatic, desperate song is SOOO fucking good

uhhhhhhhhhhh. clicks over to my playlist. mono wo parapara kowase is a classic. shikabane no odori also.

gomen ne gomen ne is also a Very good song but uh. dear god above. whoof. that one is Rough even by kikuo standards. theres a reason its infamous

i also like yoru no uta its one of the boppier ones while still having kikuos vaguely depressing, mysterious lyrics

i already mentioned i really love mitsukannai but i also adore ii ko to youko lol. the scream at the end is so good

and uhhhhh. his latest one according to his yt at least lol. sono manma. i cant. remember the full title. is also really good

those are the ones i have on my playlist at least i definitely need to listen to more but he makes such good music and has so many songs its a bit overwhelming lol

oh god i talked more abt kikuo than i did majoras mask. jfgjdjf i like music a little bit <3

WAIT I ALMOST FORGOT KAERU NO ODORI. that one makes me insane the continously increasing tempo and percussion combined with the increasing repetitiveness of the lyrics. its soooo good its so good. eieeeen ni eien nii......

SHAKING UR HAND!!! i am also. well all i’m going to say is that kikuo music sounds normal to me and then i take a step back and realize that like oh man this says something about me right. if someone else knew they’d be like man what is going on with you inside your brain. but it IS cathartic. and sometimes i just want something insane to describe a very specific type of nameless emotion

also i like. tbh i alternate between english and japanese titles when referring to these songs LOL. like some are japanese to me and some are english to me simply. but i’m the reverse actually i’m casually studying japanese because of vocaloid! like i don’t watch anime or want to live in japan i just want to daydream about properly translating these lyrics

first i’m gonna respond to the ones you already mentioned <3

nothing wrong with being basic aishite aishite aishite is also my top favorite and the reason i got into kikuo etc etc!!!!. sometimes popular things are popular for good reason!!! i absolutely love the feeling of desperation and insanity in that one y’know? dear people who have co-opted it into a yandere song listen i’m glad you’re having fun but you’re so missing the point there it is about being parented poorly. in any case it’s a banger tho!!

i LOOOOVE kara kara kara no kara fun fact that was one of the first ones i listened to back when first getting into kikuo/vocaloid in general and my initial impression was like ‘ack what is this’ and like it got so intense and fast it like spiked my heart rate which made me uncomfortable. then i revisited it the following year after having had my metaphorical frog boiled and was like ok actually this isn’t that weird at all it’s a wacky banger. again with the like. songs that cover a type of emotion you can’t describe. when kara kara kara no kara hits nothing else does

anagura-gurashi WAOH so fun with the steel drums and the garbled vocals from miku at that one long high note and the just general dark and drowning type vibes… i discovered apparently relatively recently there was like an animation meme going around set to a cover of this song and now i’m like oooh i wanna get in on that… also yasss the panning back and forth and multiple voices. multiple kikuo songs do it and it’s sooo fun

kimi ga shinde mo yurushite ageru yo IS a pleasant sounding one. i may not understand what’s going on there and knowing kikuo it’s surely dark but like. lot of these songs have the vibes of like ‘yes there’s something wretched going on here probably but let’s have fun with it let’s make peace with it’. soshite kimi wa tsuki ni natta is similar in that vibe. dark yet whimsical about it… that’s the secret sauce kikuo tends to deliver. even better when it’s catchy

the vocals on hikari yo are i n c r e d i b l e are we talking about the hanatan version here? i’m like the number one kikuohana fan in the world you don’t understand. for this song in particular like wow the way she just sounds like she’s desperately screaming everything out like begging for help trying to get out of an endless nightmare… how do i get a voice like that dude!!!! love the way the song starts with like a single beat of pause and then instantly goes 🎵AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH🎶 also no kidding!!! when the accordion comes out you know you’re about to hear one of the greatest tracks ever produced. who else uses it like this guy man

mono wo parapara kowase!!! littlejayneycakes’ english cover is not bad actually. what an interesting concept…. being obsessed with destroying the things people love just to mess with them because you have a fixation on like spiritually destroying them, but then they love you, so now you fall under that category, and this destroy yourself… song’s a fun chaotic one too

shikabane no odori is dear to my heart bc like a few years ago before i was even into the vocaloid scene an artist/editor i followed would make video edits of a certain game i liked set to whatever music they liked and they were into kikuo so i first heard a lot of songs from them so i associate them with those awesome edits. honestly that same artist has gotten me into so much lol

gomenne gomenne is like the one thing i’m not brave enough to give a second chance lol. there’s dark and weird stuff and then there’s That. i know i’m stronger now than i was when i first heard it/read the lyrics but like It Was That Bad.™️ its entire own level for my own sanity i closed the vid after i was like halfway through

yoru no uta is fun (depressing undoubtedly) when i’m listening but it isn’t as fun to sing along with bc of how repetitive it is. yoru yoru yoru yoru yoru yoru yoru yoru… the new vid is fun though

i already said but ya those are some of my favorite kikuomiku7s! plus fukai mori no naka de for the reasons mentioned. and yesss absolutely on the fun yell at the end

as it is, as it is, without change (don’t remember the japanese title either lol) i think i’ve only listened to once or twice so i’m not sure

kaeru no odori is such a fun lil silly one hehe

ok so for my favorites (bc this post isn’t long enough right):

1. aishite aishite aishite (already talked about)

2. urami no warutsu. SUCH a banger honestly. like malicious fun ghost revenge plus fairy tale waltz vibes and so incredibly catchyyyy… tooi tooi yoru no hate de…. urami tsuzukeyo aishita hito yo…

3. desert theater. i NEED more people to hear this one it is just stunningly beautiful if i am being so honest. hanatan is PEAK here. the lyrics are like typical kikuo but the background music is unlike anything else he’s ever done and i need more. and the fun time signature…

ok those are the ones i solidly have a ranking for but my next batch of top faves that i didn’t already mention:

• akazukin no ookami- this one is so much edgy funnnnnnn good old i want to be evil hee hee. a very straightforward one conceptually (you are the wolf tricking little red ridinghood)

•ufo- for reasons mentioned it’s so shockingly different from everything else. both genuinely beautiful and relatively low energy and somber compared to the rest of kikuo’s discography. sounds so wistful and homesick and yet whimsical as you’re being whisked away into space… the part where the tempo rapidly speeds up and then slows way down before returning to a steady pace is my favorite. lot of incredible accordion solos in this one

•butaisei nanika/histrionic- oh how badly i need a good english cover of this one there are so many characters and ocs i’d love to work with this song to… another somber banger. yeah man let’s put on masks and play pretend through our sorrows. featuring more incredible accordion and more steel drum like in anagura-gurashi!!!

•nobore! susume! takai tou! - this is the kind of song i’d love to sing with a huge group of people where we like each take turns singing each verse as a solo and then on that recurring refrain we all sing or something

•midwinter’s daughter- too lazy and tired to translate this one into japanese but i just love the like kind of cold yet bright feeling it gives off. another slow melancholy one plus it’s a duet

•i am amazed how underrated lie lie lie is tbh. also the way not even hanatan can sing all that at full speed without needing to desperately gasp in the middle of the chorus there

•wolf boy can be fun

•aisare hibiware kagami no uta is a REALLY fun one especially with the two octave slide up at the end??? when i successfully sing that and hit that note it’s such a good feeling. like this is the kind of thing i’m talking about when i say kikuohana needs more attention

•fukouya no musume is a fun one for like halloween or something. or maybe it was just one of the first spooky ones i heard. the first few seconds sound like a horror movie then it hard cuts to something kinda swanky then hard cuts to silence underneath the vocals aside from like hard piano hits. idk how to explain it but the chorus does this interesting thing where like the melody itself is just jumping between the same two or three notes in rhythm but the backing music changing underneath is what gives the music its rich color

•moon demon is a more recent addition to my playlist i love a good song that kind of sounds like you’re torturing a machine but also slow jamming but evilly

•sea is has some really nice background music to it (it’s not much of a lyrical one) (also yes the title is ‘sea is’) there’s a youtube channel i like that creates instrumental piano covers of lots of voca songs and esp kikuo songs and they have a really lovely one for this one. i may be insane but also gentle piano my beloved. check out bosshogg

ok these are all the ones i’m going to mention JFHXBDJDNDJND i have a lot but a lot are just kind of background noise to me. thank you for rambling about music w me

#i know you sent this a day ago and i was the one who asked #sorry for not responding sooner lol #but a topic like this takes time to fully explore #asks #thanks anon

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sickstag · 5 months

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you honestly never stop to flatter me. i'd love to know you better sir, but i'll never want for you to feel pressured to do something you feel uncomfortable with. i really like to know a person better when i'm interested in them, which is a silly reason i know. i really want to be more active and consistent here, so anything can be an excuse to write you, i genuinely can't get enough of this and of you, of course.

-🦌

This is going to be a bit of a longer post because I am autistic and will therefore be going insane at the chance to talk about my interests.

So firstly in terms of my appearance, I’ve actually been wanting to face reveal here for a while (I posted about it earlier, infact) but I don’t want to be found by my irl’s, currently— I’m alternative and sit somewhere between traditional emo and what I call ‘your southern gothic older brother’. I have 11 piercings and 2 tattoos.

I’m an artist and a writer (which I’ve mentioned previously here), I write religious/ erotic horror, surgical gore and slice of life stories with themes of religious and generational trauma as well as queer relationships. I put my whole life into my projects (of which I have 4), writing and art are my passions. They are my life.

In order of development status (most to least), my projects are named:

The Purpose of a Hunting Dog

This Heavenly Feeling

Your Coyote Looks Like a Dog

God’s Free Will

I also have 4 short stories related to these projects, titled: ‘Do House Cats Get Cabin Fever?’, ‘Wild Whistle’, ‘Colostrum’ and ‘Who’s The Lamb?’.

I’m also Christian (sort of), hence why, if you’ll ask me about my projects, you’ll notice that they’re all religiously centred in some way. I adore reading about Isaiah, Joseph, Jesus and Judas specifically. I’m also known for having a pretty heavy priest kink but that is besides the point. Conveniently, Christianity is also my special interest.

I go to college 3 days a week (studying Graphics Design, Illustration and Game Arts) and work (with animals) during the other 4, so I don’t have a lot of time for anything more, but I try my best. I am also an editor in my free time and I tutor younger art students.

My favourite shows are:

This Is Going To Hurt

Devilman Crybaby

Baby Reindeer

The Dark Crystal (remake)

Arcane

Hannibal (sort of. It’s complicated)

And my favourite movies are:

Princess Mononoke

Everything Everywhere All At Once

As You Are

The Hunchback Of Notre Dame

Re-Animator

Guardians Of The Galaxy 3

Controversially, I’m not big into music, but I listen to a lot of:

McCafferty

The Front Bottoms

Mitski

Destroy Boys

I also listen to a lot of musical playlists such as Falsettos, Jesus Christ Superstar and the broadway version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

My favourite books are:

Good Omens

Lambs Of God

Hannibal

After The Fire

The Last Days Of Judas Iscariot

Lapvona (which I reference frequently in my writing)

When I have the time, I like to go to Costa (specifically the new, rose themed pink one that just opened in my city), and a place called Coffee #1. I am a big coffee guy. I’m also working on a church photography project, so you also might find me getting early off of the bus before work to do photo shoots. Oh, and I rollerblade on Saturdays (rarely, if I’m not working) and love going to museums (especially ones about medicine or art). I don’t have any friends and enjoy doing things by myself (for the most part), such as going to the cinema. I am big into writing essays and movie reviews.

Random but I also adore North American wildlife. I love deer and caribou and wolves. I also love sheep and doves.

Hopefully this wasn’t too much information to digest, I can’t be normal about anything I enjoy and I don’t get asked very often.

#🦌stag

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icravemusicx0x0 · 5 months

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rating music please don’t hurt me #24 | từ vực thẩm đến rìa ánh sáng - the cassette

i swear i would never procrastinate ever again, i hope. also for the rest of my vietnamese series, i’ll not write in vietnamese, unfortunately for my non-existent vietnamese audience. this is for the ease of my time since im busy all the time.

anyways, we’re reviewing the cassette’s 2nd album, từ vực thẩm đến rìa ánh sáng. literally speaking, the whole album focuses around going up from the deep depths to the edge of sunlight - it’s kind of the concept here.

overall, this album has everything i love about vietnamese alternative rock - the album has the positive ballad feeling with sweet dreamy chord progressions, its like a more mainstream drop nineteens. the two first and last tracks, all named by the album title acts like the two polars, completely opposite from each other, and the body tracks are the stepping stones to go to the two places.

however, the body tracks are what i don’t like about this album. the album didn’t progress smoothly like i expected. if its about going up from the deep end to the edge of the sunlight then i have to feel like i’m ascending to heaven smooth like sisyphus’s slope. also naming a track ‘playlist’ is so random like what. additionally, the album’s feels kind of repetitive here and there, so i may deduct a point for unoriginality.

someone needs to study this whole vietnamese alt rock scene, or else ill do it, just notify me when its time.

best track: treo (2am) - this song is the whole career’s aesthetic istg.

tracks that i rec listening: soạn, november, đừng đi, cơn mưa rào năm ấy.

worst track: chuyến xa trung chuyển - kind of boring eh.

overall score 7.8/10 - this is all opinion so pls no hate

listen here:

#rmpdhm #rating music please don't hate me #music #music related #music review #album #album review #từ vực thẩm đến rìa ánh sáng #the cassette #alternative rock #vietnamese #vietnamese alternative rock #Spotify

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theultimatemedic · 1 year

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Hs & Ts Are No Longer Reversible Causes- the P.R.O.P.H.E.T.S are

Hs & Ts Are No Longer Reversible Causes- the P.R.O.P.H.E.T.S are https://ift.tt/wL0T8vP this video covers what EMTs and paramedics need to know about the alternative causes and reversible causes of cardiac arrest For more information, please visit my website: https://www.FreeNREMT.com/ If you are going to be an Emergency Medical Technician that evaluates patients and provides prompt medical intervention, you must watch this short. Join us as we delve into the importance of pulse rate assessment and equip yourself with the essential skills for patient care. Subscribe now to enhance your emergency medical training and be ready to treat in emergency situations Video Title: Hs & Ts Are No Longer Reversible Causes of Cardiac Arrest- the P.R.O.P.H.E.T.S are The video contains alternative causes and reversible cause of cardiac arrest but also tries to cover the following subjects: 5 Hs & Ts Hypoxia, Hypovolemia, Hydrogen ions (acidosis), Hyper/Hypo-kalemia, Hypothermia; Tension pneumothorax, Tamponade-cardiac, Toxins, Thrombosis-coronary (MI), Thrombosis-pulmonary (PE). i also wrote 25+ New Protocols that you need to know to do the job and 75+ Assessments too, because not every patient needs treatment Subscribe to ‘the ultimate medic’ and get access to all our educational content that’s designed to help you master the NREMT exams: https://t.ly/KoSFs Stay Connected To Us. Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/theultimatemedic/ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100090083982510 Website: https://www.theultimatemedic.com/ For Business Inquiries: [email protected] ============================= Recommended Playlists: https://www.youtube.com/@theultimatemedic/playlists Other Videos You Might Be Interested In Watching: Evan, The Paramedic Coach- Gets Wheezing 66% Wrong Part 2 Even The Paramedic Coach- ONLY 66% Wrong About Wheezing #1 Tip for Predicting the Patient from Nothing More than dispatch notes Heart Block for EMTs- what you need to know FREE Charts Pee Poop & Vomit – Signs & Symptoms EMTs use to diagnose ========================== About the ultimate medic: Welcome to ‘the ultimate medic,’ your go-to resource for mastering the NREMT exams. We break down complex medical concepts into easy-to-understand content, making your study sessions less stressful and more productive. Our channel is a hub for future lifesavers, where learning meets passion. Subscribe now and become a part of our mission to make emergency medical services more efficient and effective for everyone. For Collaboration and Business inquiries, please use the contact information below: Email: [email protected] Subscribe now and transform your NREMT exam preparation. Don’t miss out on our easy-to-understand content that makes studying more productive. https://t.ly/KoSFs ================================= Disclaimer: We do not accept any liability for any loss or damage incurred by you acting or not acting as a result of watching any of our publications. You acknowledge that you use the information we provide at your own risk. Do your research. Copyright Notice: This video and my YouTube channel contain dialogue, music, and images that are the property of the ultimate medic. You are authorized to share the video link and channel and embed this video in your website or others as long as a link back to our Youtube Channel is provided. ©TheUltimateMedic #emtstudent #emtschool #emt #emtlife #paramedic #paramedicschool #paramediclife #paramedicscience #paramedicstudent #ems from the ultimate medic https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qCvj2Q34GhU via the ultimate medic https://ift.tt/lmp0i8S August 25, 2023 at 06:30AM

#emtpulserates #paramedictraining #nremtprep #emsinthefield #pulseassessment #shorts #emtstudent #emtschool #emt #emtlife #paramedic #paramedicschool #paramediclife

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miekasa · 4 years

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NICE.

+ pairings: eren yeager + (fem) reader

+ genres: rich kid au, college au, friends to lovers au, fluff, light-ish angst, smut/nsfw content (everybody gets a piece)!

+ warnings: mentions of depression/anxiety, mentions and use of drugs and alcohol, some of the smut happens under the influence so be cautious if that’s something you don’t like, i swear this is all more idiots in love than angst tho i just wanna disclose everything fairly

+ notes: this is alternatively titled super rich kids and you can probably figure out why. some of this is based off of real life, some of it is straight out of gossip girl and i challenge you to separate the facts from the fiction :’) anyways, i hope we all remember the lyrics to in my feelings

+ more notes: one quick reference for ages in this fic—all the vets are older but not by that much, think various stages of grad school. armin, connie, sasha, annie, and bertholdt are all college sophomores. eren, the reader, and pretty much everybody else are college seniors, so they’re about a year or two older. also here is a playlist for your reading pleasures, shoutout to ryn for letting me mooch of their spotify account :’)

+ word count: 19k. i’m sorry.

+ summary: fuck you, fuck you, you’re cool, fuck you.; or the story of notorious rich kid and self-proclaimed bad boy eren yeager, and his not so goody two-shoes best friend.

“So you’re saying that you don’t love me? That you’re not riding? That you’ll actually leave from beside me?”

“I’m saying that it’s ass o’clock in the morning and I’m not driving in the rain to Brooklyn to pick your sorry ass up.”

“But… but I want you, and I need you, and I’m down for you.”

You check the time on your phone screen and groan. 3:57am. Far too early to be dealing with the likes of Eren Jaeger. “Just get an Uber or something. I don’t know what you and your idiot friends were up to this time, but I don’t want any part of it.”

“First, they’re our idiot friends. Second, I don’t think they let you take Ubers from jail, and even if they did, it’s, like, four in the morning, so I don’t think there are any Ubers driving around, so could you pretty please come pick me up? I promise I’ll make it up to—”

“From where?” you cut him off, slowly sitting upright in your bed. You hold your phone closer to your ear, ready to listen again; because, certainly, you must have misheard him the first time. You wait, but the line is silent, save for Eren’s awkward chuckling. “Eren Asher Jaeger, tell me that that was another stupid lyric from that stupid song, and that you are not in prison right now.”

Eren makes a sad attempt at laughing. “Technically, it’s a holding cell, not really prison… and I would leave, but they suspended my license for a month, and Min can’t drive yet, so we kind of need you,” he explains, “Uh, no pun intended.”

“Min?” you pull your eyebrows together at the mention of the younger’s name, “Is Armin with you?”

“Uh, yeah.”

With a frown and a heavy sigh, you push yourself out of bed, wedging your phone between your shoulder and your ear as you grab the nearest pair of sweatpants.

“Why did you get him caught up in whatever stupid shit you were doing tonight?” you complain, scanning your dark bedroom for a shirt to wear, “Erwin’s going to castrate you when he finds out.”

You curse as you stub your toe against the edge of your bed on your way out of the room. Given the time, weather, and the fact that you have several exams to start studying for, hanging up and leaving Eren in the middle of god knows where Brooklyn doesn’t seem like such a bad idea, but you couldn’t go back to sleep knowing that Armin would have to suffer with him.

“Relax,” Eren breathes in a tone all too nonchalant for the situation at hand, “He didn’t get charged with anything, and nothing’s going on his record.”

“You don’t know that,” you retort, sliding your raincoat over your free arm, as you paddle down the stairs of your apartment, “The NYPD suck.”

“True,” he hums, “But I paid off the cop, so it’ll be fine.”

You pause in your steps, but really, you shouldn’t be surprised. “Of course you did,” you mumble, moving again and grabbing your car keys off of the kitchen island.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he questions. His tone is actually genuine and it tempts you to roll your eyes.

“What it always means, Eren,” you sigh, stepping into the elevator, “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

“Thank you, baby. I love you.”

“Eren?”

“Yeah?”

“Get off my line.”

He doesn’t have time to throw in another pitiful “I love you” before the line goes dead and he’s met with static silence. He hangs up the station telephone with a silent chuckle, turning around to face Armin and Officer Hannes.

“Someone’s coming to pick us up,” he says, trying to focus on Armin’s sigh of relief and not the warmth creeping up his neck and into his cheeks, “I’ll, uh, call a tow for the car in the morning.”

The cop, too tired to care, only shrugs, and pays them no further attention. He hands Eren a plastic bag with his car keys and newly suspended license, escorts him back into the cell, and returns to his desk. Eren gives Hannes the finger while his back is turned.

Beside him, Armin is still quivering; bouncing his leg up and down, fiddling with his fingers, gnawing on his bottom lip. Eren frowns, a heavy wave of guilt washing over him as he takes in the younger’s anxiety ridden state. It wasn’t fair that Armin could have potentially suffered legal consequences because of his stupidity.

Eren’s lucky that Hannes was sleazy enough to accept his bribe and let him off with minimal punishment. With that they were doing, things could have ended up far worse for the both of them tonight.

“I’m sorry, man,” he apologizes, hands stuffed in his front pockets, “About tonight, I mean. We—I shouldn’t have done that, not with you there.”

Armin looks up at him with sparkling, doe eyes and Eren wants to punch himself in the gut for making him go through all of this, even if it didn’t amount to an actual arrest. “You couldn’t have known this was going to happen.”

“I could have prevented it,” he says. Because it’s what you would have said, too.

“It’s not your fault, I wanted to come, remember?” Armin tells him, redirecting his gaze to the grey floor of the precinct cell. He takes a deep breath, almost calming down completely when a sudden thought reignites his nervous ticks, “You… they’re not gonna tell my parents, right?”

“No, no—of course not.”

Armin was legally an adult; he, nor Eren, nor the police had to tell his parents anything. Sure, Hannes could rat them out, but honestly that sounded like way more work than he was cut out for; not to mention he’d be bound to reveal that he let them off easy for a couple thousand bucks.

Armin nods, “And… that wasn’t Erwin on the phone, right?”

“Are you kidding me? He’d murder me on the spot,” Eren says. He pauses before tacking on, “I, uh… I called (_____).”

“Oh,” the younger gapes, “She’ll kill you, too.”

“Yeah,” Eren sighs, scratching the back of his neck in nervous anticipation, “Trust me, I know.”

“You have your access card on you, right, Armin?” you ask. He nods sheepishly, hand on the car door handle.

“Thanks again for coming to get us,” he says meekly, “I’m sorry about waking you up and everything.”

You offer him a warm smile through the rear view mirror, “Don’t worry about it, I’m just glad you’re safe. Text me when you get up tomorrow, okay? We can get brunch, my treat.”

His face lights up at the prospect of free food, and he nods once more, enthusiastically, but his expression falls again when he speaks, “Okay, and I’ll, um, pay you back for the tickets and stuff as soon as I can—”

“It’s fine, really, don’t worry about it,” you repeat.

“It was almost three thou—”

“You forget who you’re friends with,” you cut him off with a smile, “Don’t worry about it, okay? It wasn’t your fault.”

Armin’s eyes dart to Eren quickly, before clearing his throat, a light pink tint to his cheeks. You know that the prospect of money can be a sensitive subject for Armin, one easily triggered by his very environment, but this wasn’t negotiable on your end. You know that Armin doesn’t like the feeling of owing anyone anything, but he knows he won’t get you to budge; so, he quietly nods, appreciative of your generosity, before bidding you and Eren a final goodnight and sprinting towards the dorm. Once you see that he’s safely inside, you wave one last time, and wait for the door to shut behind him.

Slowly, Eren turns to the driver’s seat to look at you. You were eerily calm when you came to pick him and Armin up from the station. You didn’t yell, cuss, or punch him in the face like he expected. You politely talked to the officer, thanked him for his service, paid their fees, and up until now, you’ve shown no signs of being angry with him at all.

The two of you drive back to your shared apartment in complete silence, Eren too confused, and borderline scared, of initiating a conversation. He wonders if you’re too tired, or if you really don’t give a damn anymore, but when you pull into the underground lot of your building and put the car in park, he finds out the silence was simply the calm before the storm.

You take your hand off of the gear shift and turn towards him. It’s a quiet stare down for nearly a full minute before you break the mime act with a slap to his thigh.

“Drag racing? Are you out of your fucking mind? Of all the stupid shit you’ve done—and you’ve done a lot of stupid shit—this has got to take the cake. Just what the actual fuck were you thinking?”

“Ouch!” he inhales sharply, rubbing over where you’d hit him, “We were just having fun! Then these other guys showed up and started talking shit so—”

“Having fun?” you echo, “You couldn’t think of anything fun to do that’s not illegal in every borough of New York City?”

Eren feels his cheek flush, but he only huffs with the illusion of disinterest, “I don’t know why you’re freaking out so bad. I’m a good driver, it was those other squids that got us into shit, I’m telling you. They showed up looking for a fight, then ran like a bunch of pussies when the cops came.”

You exhale slowly, shaking your head in disbelief. You seem to have no other words to say to him, choosing to step out of the car and slam the door behind you. Eren quickly follows, slamming his door equally as hard, and hot on your trail as you march towards the elevator.

“(_____), come on, enough with the silent treatment,” he whines when you stick yourself in a corner of the elevator after pushing the button to the penthouse, “I told you I didn’t start shit, Armin and I got ratted on.”

“I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about whether or not they started it, Eren. You’re still the problem here.”

“Me? How am I the problem?” he pulls back, eyebrows drawn together in genuine confusion, “I just told you I didn’t do shit.”

You scoff, crossing your arms and shifting your left leg, “I’m not doing this with you right now.”

“Doing what with me?” he presses, tone growing icy.

“This, Eren!” you reiterate, “I’m too tired to hear your bullshit right now.”

The elevator dings and opens into your apartment. You push past him, continuing your deliberate strides through the living area, and to the stairs, but Eren catches you with a hand on your wrist before you can go any further.

“Will you fucking stop that,” he growls, “If you’ve got something to say, then stop running away from me, and just say it.”

“Funny,” you sneer, pulling your wrist away from him and settling both your feet on the bottom step, “You’re one to talk about running away from things.”

He takes a step back, standing just a notch below you, perfectly frozen in place. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means your little drag racing episode was not only dangerous and immature, it was you running away from your problems like a spoiled child, yet again.”

Eren’s features narrow at your accusations; eyes fading into hooded slits, lips curving downwards, and voice bobbing low, “I’m not running away from anything.”

“Oh, please, Eren,” you roll your eyes, arms retreating to their crossed position in front of your chest, “Cut the bullshit.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” But he bets that even in the dim lighting of the apartment, you can see the tips of his ears growing red, just like they always do when he’s lying.

“Oh, really?” you ask, eyes widening in mock surprise, “You don’t think I don’t know this whole thing has something to do with the fact that your mom came home on Friday?”

Another pause. “Who told you that?” He asks, but it comes out more like a statement.

“Nobody had to,” you snap, “Jean said he caught you with a sack of coke over the weekend, and I knew something was up.”

“It wasn’t mine, I was—”

“I said cut the shit, Eren. If I went up into your room right now I bet your ass I’d find more than enough of it in a shoebox somewhere.”

He retreats, almost bashful, but unapologetic all the same. “Fine, whatever, I did a few lines. Big deal.”

“The big deal is that you think this is fucking normal, and now you’ve upgraded from coke to getting yourself arrested! It’d be one thing if you were acting like a misfit on your own, but to drag Armin into it because you—”

“Drag him into it?” he echoes with the snare of sarcasm dripping from each syllable, “You talk about Armin like he’s six. I don’t know why you think he’s some helpless little baby, but you have no goddamn responsibility over him. He’s not your fucking charity case.”

“I never fucking said he’s my charity case—don’t you ever fucking say that,” you say, “Having some basic respect and concern for my friends isn’t charity.”

“Wake the fuck up! You baby Armin when he’s a grown ass man. I didn’t force him into the fucking car to get sympathy points from you.”

“Grown? Armin is barely nineteen, disowned by his parents, is on a full fucking ride to an insanely expensive university, and you got him arrested tonight! Do you know what could happen if NYU found out? They could fucking kick him out, take his scholarship away—and then what, huh? Or were you just gonna buy off the headmaster, too?”

“You’re acting like I fucking planned for it!”

He’s screaming now, voice bellowing throughout the apartment, face red—and he doesn’t mean to, he doesn’t mean it at all; but it’s late, and he’s tired, and those shouldn’t be excuses, but he’s too prideful to back down.

“Of course you didn’t! You didn’t plan for anything, you were just being a reckless, irresponsible asshole like always,” you tell him, too blind-sighted by anger and the need to chide him that you miss the teary undertones in his words.

“And what’s it matter to you?”

“It fucking matters to me when you call at some godforsaken hour asking me to pick you up from prison!”

He takes a step forward, right leg elevated by the same step that both your feet rest on. “Well, what else am I supposed to fucking do!” He shouts even though he’s mere inches from your face, “Tell me just what the fuck I’m supposed to do instead!”

“You’re supposed to act like an adult and fucking talk to someone!”

“Who the hell am I supposed to talk to, huh?” he presses, taking a step forward and forcing you to retreat backwards, and up a step, “My mother who’s never home or her bastard boyfriend?”—another step forward for him, another step backwards for you—“The step-brother I can’t get in contact with?”—one step forward; one step backwards—“Or maybe the dad I never had, right?”

“Me, Eren!” you yell back with equal vigor, throwing your hands up at your sides, and planting your feet firmly. “Armin, Mikasa, Jean—anyone! You have people who fucking care about you! Stop treating us like correction officers, we’re your fucking friends!”

There’s silence for a while, just you and Eren staring at each other, heavy breathing, waiting for the other to make the next move. He opens his mouth, but when he tries to speak, his resolve washes away, his throat tightens and the words get sucked back in.

It would be easy to keep yelling, screaming, blaming you for blowing up on him. He used to think the scolding he got from you after pulling some stupid stunt was the worst part; but now, he thinks it might be his favorite part. He hates to hear you scream, and it hurts to see you cry, but if you’re yelling, you’re angry that he hurt himself; you care that he’s okay.

“I—” he stutters, words quiet and broken, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to get like this tonight, it was an accident I—”

“You never mean for any of it to happen, yet it always does,” you interrupt, voice soft yet strained, “I know you have your own shit to deal with, but so does everybody else.”

“(_____), please, you’re right, okay? I should have said something before,” he admits, mouth small as he voices his confessions, “I should have talked to you or one of the boys, but I—I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

He’s groveling now. Mouth in pout, eyes wide, voice small, and honestly, he thinks he might cry. At this point he doesn’t care if he does.

“I want you to mean it,” you finally say, and when he looks up, he hates the look he sees in your eyes. It’s something between sad and hurt and empty and it’s awful. Someone like you shouldn’t feel that way. He shouldn’t make you feel that way.

“I—”

“When you’re ready to tell me exactly what’s going on with you—what’s happening that made you think going to jail would be better than facing your issues—I’ll be here to talk,” you continue, eyes watering, “But until then, goodnight, Eren.”

Eren winces when you turn around and ascend up the remaining stairs. He flirts with the idea of following you, going to your room to finish talking, but you’re probably angry enough to have it locked. His room is up there, too, but he opts for part of the sectional, laying down with the palms of his hands kneading against his closed eyelids.

For as long as he can remember, you’ve been there for him. Your friendship, at times, was like a game of tag—Eren always on the run with you loyally chasing after him; he’d always run amuck, and you’d always be there to catch him in the act. Now, it’s five in the morning, there’s no more yelling, no more chasing, no more racing, but he’s still running.

The following morning, you take Armin out to brunch, as promised. Jean tags along too, something about hanging out with the two of you being infinitely more entertaining than his genetics lecture. It doesn’t seem like Jean knows anything about Armin and Eren’s late night antics, so you don’t bring it up yourself.

Oblivious, Jean chats your ears off as if nothing is awry. Whether he knows it or not, he does a great job of distracting Armin from his own thoughts. They both eat to their heart’s content when you remind them you’ll foot the bill; and you don’t bat an eye when Jean convinces Armin to order his third round of pancakes. He deserves it.

Afterwards, Jean convinces the three of you to go window shopping with him in SoHo, claiming that he needed inspiration for his latest fashion assignment (you don’t question why he’s taking a fashion class as a biology major, but you suspect it has something to do with Mikasa). Window shopping soon turns into actual shopping, so almost completely unprompted, and with little effort on his part, Armin gets a few pieces of clothing on your behalf, while you try to ignore Eren’s words itching at the back of your mind.

Armin’s not a baby, but he certainly is a kid with a rough past and rough relationship with his parents at a time in his life where he arguably needs them the most. A little extra support from his friends wouldn’t harm him.

It’s nearing six when the three of you are wedged in a small booth inside a café, indulging in overpriced hot chocolate. Three sips into his second cup, Jean excuses himself to the bathroom, leaving you sitting across from Armin.

“You know, you don’t have to keep buying me stuff to make up for Eren,” Armin says, a small smile playing on his lips.

“I’m not trying to make up for him,” you sputter, careful not to spill your drink over your lap, “You had a rough night. Just accept my gifts, don’t be a brat.”

“I do accept them. Erwin’s been eyeing that Off White sweater for, like, three weeks now. He’s gonna have a hissy fit when he sees me wearing it.” You chuckle, and he continues, “But you know, as much I love spending time with you, you can’t use me to avoid Eren forever.”

“I’m not avoiding him,” you frown.

“You said you were going to take us to brunch, and then spent the whole day with us.”

“Funny, I recall you saying something about how much you love my company about thirty seconds ago.”

“He’s called you at least ten times today.”

“I was spending the day with my favorite NYU student… and Jean,” you bat your lashes, “I see you maybe once a week. I live with Eren, I have to see him every day.”

Armin calls your name with a pout, “He’s sorry, you know.”

“Not sorry enough,” you mumble. Armin opens his mouth to say something again, but then Jean’s sliding back into the booth, chatting about how he’s finally come up with the perfect anniversary date for Mikasa.

Armin doesn’t notice your sigh of relief, but he does take note of the way you wipe away your notifications when a text rings through. If Eren could spend his days running away from his problems, then you could, too.

Despite being arguably the greediest of you all, Jean loves company, so he doesn’t hesitate to say yes when you ask to crash at his place after your shopping escapades. You expect to be welcomed with sounds of screaming, laughter, and loud music, but to your surprise his apartment is completely silent upon your entering.

“Bertholdt has class and Marco has a meeting,” he prompts, as if he could read your thoughts. He shimmies his coat off his shoulders and tosses it over the bar in the foyer.

Their apartment has the same amount of rooms as yours and Eren’s, but is all stretched along a single floor. It’s more of a maze, really, with intricate turns, and hallways, that all more or less open up into the expanse of the foyer and bar. Their living room is your favorite part. A dark, brown leather sectional wraps around the back three walls and an oversized flatscreen encased in an ebony frame takes center stage. A collection of vinyl records litters the walls above the couch; each of the boys contributing their favorite discs as décor.

“If he has class, shouldn’t you have class?” you question, fingers dragging over the ridges of the closest record.

“I’ve had class all day, but that doesn’t mean I go,” Jean shrugs, walking up behind you and taking your jacket off your shoulders and your bag from your hand, “Besides, Bertholdt will probably cut half-way to go see Reiner, if he can even stay awake that long. Going with him is just as productive as staying home.”

“You’re all a mess,” you scoff, turning around as a cheesy grin grows on Jean’s lips. His smile is infectious, and soon you catch yourself grinning just because.

“You want something to drink?” he offers, throwing your coat over his elbow and tilting his head in the direction of the bar.

“You’re bad at mixing drinks,” you remind him, but follow him anyway.

Jean laughs, not bothering to deny the jab. He doesn’t try his hand at anything mixed or complicated this time; simply offering you a glass of your favorite red, and pouring himself a smaller amount.

He puts the album you were gawking at earlier on the record player, the two of you sinking into the couch as lovely melodies radiate throughout the apartment.

He spends the first hour bitching about how Marco’s supposed to become a CEO in less than a year, yet has the attention span of a squirrel; but the playful lilt in the brunette’s voice, and the begrudging smile on his face lets you know that it’s all love. He gushes about Mikasa for a good half hour, cramming you with stories about his girlfriend’s talent for sewing and fashion. You also learn that Bertholdt’s been busier than usual these days, and Jean suspects it has something to do with a secret lover.

You pinch your eyebrows at his hunch. Bertholdt’s never been one for dating. He’s had many friends with benefits in the past, but they weren’t relationships, nor were they secrets. In fact, you don’t think that he could keep a secret to save his life.

“Why would he be hiding it if he were seeing someone?” you question, swirling your newly refilled glass.

“Dunno,” Jean shrugs, “But it’s sus, I’m telling you. He’s been oddly busy for someone with a 2.3 GPA. Either way, I’ll pry it out of him eventually.”

“You’re so fucking nosey,” you chuckle, watching the mischievous, satisfied grin settle onto his features.

“I kinda think it’s Armin,” Jean says after a while, downing the remaining wine in his cup, while you choke on your own drink.

“Why on Earth do you think if Bertholdt had a secret lover that it’d be Armin?”

“Because he was in love with him for, like, two years in high school,” Jean says, as if the information should be painfully obvious.

“Yeah, and Bert also hooked up with a million different people in high school.”

“That doesn’t mean he wasn’t still in love with Armin.”

“I don’t think Armin’s kissed another human, let alone is in a secret relationship with one.”

“Hm, true. I forget he’s still a virgin.”

“Hey—there’s nothing wrong with Armin being a virgin, leave him be.”

“I know there’s nothing wrong with it,” Jean whines, “But it’s so—he doesn’t have to be. Armin’s cute! And very attractive—dare I even say sexy. He could go outside and get laid right now if he just tried.”

“Stay humble, Jean boy. If I remember correctly, you only started breaking hearts a year ago,” you tut. Jean’s nose goes pink as he shoves you away when you continue, “But, if you’re so concerned with Armin’s virginity, why don’t you go help him out with it.”

“Actually, if I remember correctly, I think that’s more your gig,” he shoots back, a smug smile tugging on his lips. “Not to mention, I’m not trying to get beat up by Annie. Though, I wonder how much longer it’ll take before she finally snaps. Hey, maybe the both of you can tag team him, I’m sure Annie wouldn’t mind, and it might even make Armin less nervous to have you—”

It’s your turn to shove him now, throwing in an extra punch when his head bobs back with laughter. You’re very certain Annie would mind; you would mind if someone inserted themself in your kind of, sort of, not really relationship, and ruined your four years of pining.

“Speaking of lovers,” Jean prompts, once his laughter dies down, bending his knee and turning closer to you. “Why are you and lover boy fighting? Trouble in paradise?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you hum, sipping your drink in between words. Jean’s eyes pinch together. “Marco and I would never fight.”

“My god, will you let your Marco fantasies go already? You’ve already caused him one sexuality crisis,” Jean groans, “You know I mean Eren.”

You sigh, lowering your glass and reaching forward to pinch his cheek. “It’s nothing you have to worry your pretty little head over.”

“Please,” he scoffs, flicking your offending hand back, “He’s been texting us nonstop since this morning at, like, nine. I didn’t even know he was capable of waking up before noon.”

It’s your turn to roll your eyes, but Jean continues, “Why he would ask us for advice on you is beyond me. He knows you better than all of us combined.”

“And why you’re saying all of this is beyond me.”

“Oh, come on, what’d he do,” Jean pushes, borderline whines, as he puts his empty glass down in a cup holder embedded in the couch. He’s always been the most prone to gossip, but you forget that wine makes him even more of a nosey prick. “Must have been pretty bad. Or stupid.”

“Try both,” you mumble, “Well—I don’t know, it wasn’t… the worst thing anyone could do, but it was really fucking reckless—and why he did it, I couldn’t even tell you. I don’t know what goes through his mind half the time, but I swear he must have been on crack last night.”

“He probably was. On crack, I mean. I told you, I took an ounce from him over the weekend, but that was after Eren and Ymir did, like, five lines.”

“Do they really do that regularly?” you nearly cry, a hand massaging your temple, “Fucking Christ, if he really was high while driving, I’ll kill him myself.”

“Well, I don’t know if regular is the right word,” Jean ponders, “Maybe for Ymir, but god knows what she’s on half the time, anyways. Besides, coke isn’t the worst thing they could do.”

“You sound like you speak from personal experience.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, pausing when you shoot him a disapproving look, “Oh, come on! You’re no angel, either—if memory serves, you were high as shit at Moblit’s birthday party, and kept singing the star spangled banner all night.”

“Yeah, on weed! One time! It was on a rooftop and the stars were out and it has the same rhythm as the happy birthday song, cut me some slack!”

He finds laughing at your expense to be much more fun, however, as he continues to chuckle while you throw a fit. He’s also not one to let a topic of gossip go undiscussed, and has no problem bringing the conversation back to Eren.

“It’s because you two don’t talk, you know,” Jean tuts, “That’s why you fight like this.”

For the second time, the younger’s words have your eyebrows growing close together. “I mean, I guess—but it’s more than that. Eren and I live together, we obviously talk, but—”

“I know, I know, but just hear me out, okay? You and Eren talk about a lot of things, yeah, but you also… don’t. And sometimes you don’t have to, because you guys, like… get each other.”

“Wow. What a way with words you have, Jean Kirstein. You should write a self-help book.”

“What I mean,” he sneers, unhappy with the sarcasm being thrown his way, “Is that you guys understand each other in weird ways. It’s actually kind of cute—sometimes a little freaky, in all honesty. It’s why you don’t always have to talk about serious things. But you take it for granted and let shit bottle up, and then get in denial about it until you blow up in each other’s faces.”

“Please, you barely passed one philosophy class and now you think you’re Plato.”

“You’re doing the in denial thing right now!” he taunts, “Come one, when you two fight like this, what’s it usually about?”

You sigh, sinking back into the plush leather of the couch, and wrapping your hands around a fluffy throw pillow. Thinking about arguing with Eren isn’t particularly something you like to do, and truthfully, you don’t really get pissed at each other that often. Not to the point of ignoring each other, at least.

“I don’t know,” you drawl, “Drugs, me forgetting things, him doing stupid shit, him thinking Mikasa could do better than you, school, drinking, the fact that he leaves his big ass shoes at the top of the stairs for me to trip over and fall to my death every morning, when—”

“His parents?” Jean cuts you off.

“I—we don’t really… it’s not so much fighting over his parents, it’s all the stuff he does to deal with his parents. He never gives his mom’s boyfriends a chance, and he never really talks about why, either. I know he’s secretly just angry and insecure about his dad, but… I don’t know. That doesn’t really make it better.”

“True,” he nods, “See—he doesn’t talk about it.”

“I know, and I told him that last night, too, but… it’s a sensitive subject for him—his dad, I mean,” you sigh, “And you’re right, he shouldn’t bottle his feelings up, but, on the other hand he’s watched his mom get married five times. I don’t always blame him for not wanting to talk about it.”

“Yeah, but just because it’s hard to talk about doesn’t mean he shouldn’t,” Jean lolls, “Wouldn’t you have rather he said something than have done whatever stupid shit he did to make you want to sleep here tonight?”

“Okay, Socrates, I get it,” you lighten up, “I’ll talk to him—or get him to talk to me. Are you happy?”

“Quite,” he says, annoyingly chipper as he rises from the couch. “I hate seeing my favorite power couple fighting.”

Jean knows his words would elicit a slap to his arm, so he takes off just before you can reach him, prompting you to chase him out of the living room and down the hall. The brunette cackles ridiculously loudly as you scream his name with profanities sprinkled in-between. You catch a hold of the bottom of his shirt and pull him back, finally flicking him on the forehead.

He accepts his punishment with pride, offering you a signature smile in return while you both catch your breaths. It’s a sweet moment, the two of you looking at each other with stupid smiles on your face, exhalations tickling your cheeks.

Jean’s eyes break the gaze first, as he looks down the remainder of your face, and back up to your eyes again. His words could get caught in his throat, but he doesn’t let them—he shakes his head, and swiftly turns around, beckoning for you to follow him.

“Come on, we can steal Marco’s clothes for your pajamas this time.”

Jean spends all of three minutes pulling apart Marco’s dresser before swiping a t-shirt and Christmas themed pajama bottoms from his room. He tosses them in your direction before leading you back down the hall and to the left, opening the door to the guest bedroom for you, before leaving you to change.

They have more than one guest bedroom, but this one is unofficially yours. Little pieces of you can be found littered throughout the room, from spare jewelry to mismatched makeup. You spot a single, gold, teardrop shaped earring on the vanity and sigh as you run your fingers over it.

You swear you’d lost it a few months ago. Trust Jean to put it away for safekeeping without telling you he’d found it. The boy in question returns moments later, knocking while walking through the door with your purse in hand.

“How’d you know I was about to ask you to get that?” you question, a smile on your face as you retrieve the small bag from his hands.

Jean offers you a cocky grin, “Cause I’m the best.”

“Don’t go getting a big head, now,” you tease, “Or, well, an even bigger head.”

Jean ignores your insult, as you take a seat at the edge of the bed, fishing through your bag for your phone to plug it in for the night. He’s about to turn around and bid you goodnight, when the flash of something orange peeping out of your purse prompts his next thought.

“Hey, you picked up your refill, right?” he asks innocently, “It should have been ready last Thursday.”

You sigh, head falling slightly when you close your bag and place it on the vanity. “Uh… no.”

Jean’s mouth is already open, ready with equally friendly and scolding words, but you cut him off before he can talk. “I was going to on Thursday, but I had class late, and then I forgot on Friday and I haven’t really had time since then. But I have a few left-overs from the last two months, so I’ve been taking those!”

Jean’s mouth closes, but his eyes narrow as he begins to walk towards you. You know he’s putting two and two together, so you speak ahead of him again.

“I know, I know, I shouldn’t have any left over, but it’s only five, I promise! I’ve been really good, lately.”

Jean’s eyes remain in concentrated slits, but his resolve is waning when he reads over your expression. His facade fades as he takes the final steps towards you to stand directly in front of your body.

“Okay,” he says, voice soft through his smile, “I’ll go with you to pick them up tomorrow before I drop you home, yeah?”

It elates him more than it should to see the smile you flash his way. Unfortunately, it’s short-lived, as his next question leaves your face twisted with guilt.

“Have you… told Eren yet?”

You consider lying and saying yes, but something tells you Jean won’t buy it. Your silence seems to speak loud enough, as his shoulders drop with a quiet sigh.

“I want to, I just… well I’m mad at him right now, and even when I’m not… I don’t know why it’s so hard,” you confess.

“He’d wanna know, you know,” Jean says, and it’s not the first time he’s said it to you, either. “You know he wouldn’t judge you or anything.”

“I know that. But, truthfully, if I had things my way, not even you would know, Jean.”

It was an accident that Jean found out that you’d been taking anxiety medication.

It was at somebody’s house party where the majority of your friends and their guests had gotten piss drunk. Reiner’s date had suggested mixing their alcohol with molly she’d supposedly had in her bag. In her drunken stupor, she’d mistaken your purse for her own, but luckily, a not so drunk Jean had noticed the label didn’t match her name, and snagged the bottle before the worst could happen.

They ended up not finding her molly, anyway, but it’s a moot point. Jean had cornered you about the bottle later in the week with honest intentions; he’d been concerned that might be another kind of drug disguised by a prescription veil. However, you’d assured him that it was indeed your prescribed Lexapro, and not a shady mixture of black market substances.

And, he’d been more than understanding in the aftermath. Quite frankly, he had somewhat made it his business to ensure that you got and took your medication on time and felt comfortable getting to and from your therapy appointments.

It’s endearing in a way that made you pause and count your blessings sometimes. Jean had been nothing but unequivocally supportive in his understanding about anxiety and had gone the extra mile to comfort you where need be. It made you wonder why you hesitated to tell Eren on several occasions.

It was probably the very nature of anxiety itself that had you doubting your trust in Eren. You wanted to tell him—of course you did—but, you couldn’t. You know that Eren would do everything in his power to make it better, even if that was just being. You know that he’d want to know and he’d kill to understand. But you couldn’t possibly burden him with your problems, not when he has a million of his own.

The one person in the world you wanted to tell, you were terrified of talking to. And you know it’s irrational to be afraid of him, but you can’t seem to control those thoughts. It’s a tiring, consuming, endless cycle.

Jean watches the way your gaze lowers to the floor. He knows exactly what you’re thinking, and, god, he swears if he could take that train of thought away from you, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

With a heavy heart and tired eyes, he takes a final step forward and wraps his arms around your body. He counts three, four seconds before you hug him back. He raises a hand to the back to your head, cradling your face into his shoulder and squeezing you tightly.

“Hey, I’m proud of you, you know that,” he speaks, just a notch above a whisper, “I know you’ll tell him when you’re ready.”

“I will,” you murmur into the fabric of his shirt. You hug him back a little tighter and close your eyes, “Thank you, Jean.”

And Jean holds on, and hopes you know that he wouldn’t let you go, “You’re welcome, (_____).”

You come home to find your entire apartment littered with flowers; in the hallway, on the sectional, atop the counter, up the stairs.

There are several boxes of your favorite macarons stacked in a small pyramid on the kitchen island, and you wouldn’t be surprised if you checked the labels to find that they were shipped straight from the south of France this morning. There’s too many bottles of Ace on the coffee table, sparkling next to a basket of what looks like your regular skincare products. A pretty, gold bow rests atop an even prettier pair of red-bottomed heels, and if you’re not mistaken, that’s a limited edition, vintage YSL clutch on the sectional, resting against your favorite throw pillow.

You sigh, making your way to the couch to pick up the orange envelope sticking out of the handbag. Just as you’re about to open it, you hear footsteps, and a voice that follows.

“You’re back,” Eren chirps from mid-way on the staircase, “I, uh, there’s catering coming from Butter coming soon. I know it’s your favorite,” he continues as he descends the stairs.

He has his hand on the back of his neck and there’s a faint, pink tint to his cheeks as he slowly makes his way towards you. You cross your arms, looking him up and down when he stands in front of you.

He’s wearing dark jeans and a tweed sweater with patches at the elbow. His hair is split down the middle, longer than usual, so the ends of sweep over his eyelashes; and there are telltale signs that he’d been toying with it.

“Eren, what is all of this?” you finally ask, shifting your weight to your right leg.

“Part one of my apology and explanation,” he replies, a hopeful timbre to his voice. You roll your eyes, but he continues anyway, “Actually, part two is in that envelope.”

Skeptical, you unfold your arms and open the envelope. You don’t know what you were expecting—a card, maybe tickets to a musical or something; but what you definitely weren’t expecting were two tickets to Paris.

“France?” you look up, tickets in hand, “You don’t get it do you? You can’t just buy all of this shit, jet us off to Europe and expect everything to be okay.”

“No, no it’s not like that—I swear!” he interjects, hands moving sporadically, “It’s just, well… Can we sit? Then I can explain everything.”

Eren looks at you with those big green eyes and that sad pout to his lips, and you find yourself sighing and taking a seat on the couch against your better judgement. There’s a small smile to his lips when you do—a little victory—and he sits next to you, your knees resting against each other as you face him.

He’s shaking, and your resolve to punish him with whatever solid exterior and half-assed silent treatment dissolves as you take his left hand in your right, and recall your conversation with Jean. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s me, Eren. You can talk to me.”

When he feels your smaller hand envelop his, the shaking stops, and for a moment, it feels like he can do this, like everything is okay. He smiles, and takes a deep breath.

“The other night, you were right, about my mom and her boyfriend coming home,” he starts, words slow and heavy, “I didn’t even know she was coming—I knew she was visiting this month, but she didn’t tell me when, and I thought it was going to be just her, you know? But then she showed up with him, and, well, I don’t know. I was upset. She’s been home for a week now, and we haven’t even gone to dinner or anything.”

He pauses, and you squeeze his hand for reassurance, “We were supposed to get lunch on Thursday, but she cancelled. Had some meeting or something, I don’t know, I don’t care. Friday comes and she says she wants to have dinner, right?”

You nod, he continues. “I thought it was just going to be us, but he was there. That’s when she told me that… that they’re…” he squeezes his eyes shut, “They’re engaged.”

Your mouth falls into a small o-shape. Everything made perfect sense now.

It’s not that Eren didn’t love his mother, quite the opposite actually. He’s a mama’s boy through and through; she’s his role model, his everything, he adores her. Her career as a designer often takes her on long business trips, most frequently as prolonged stays in Paris, so much so that she relocated her primary office there shortly after Eren graduated high school.

Now, she only visits home for one or two weeks at a time, sometimes only for the weekend. Upon her decision to permanently relocate, she planned to leave Eren under the unofficial supervision of Mikasa. Instead, Eren bought Mikasa her own three-bedroom apartment in Midtown (according to his logic, it was better for her to have her own place than to move in with Jean), and a shared two-story penthouse for the both of you that overlooks Central Park.

Eren misses her more than he cares to admit, but he puts on the same facade every time she comes home because he hates the company she brings.

Paris is where she met her newest boyfriend, Mitchell, and Eren swears he hates that man with every fiber of his being. It’s not saying much, though, not when Eren’s hated every single one of his mother’s past romantic partners, right down to his own father.

“Is… is that why you—”

“Rented a brand new Corvette and went drag racing at one in the morning?” he chuckles, “Yeah. It was stupid, I know, but I was just angry, I guess. I dunno what I was feeling, but it wasn’t good.”

You nod, wrapping both of your hands around his now and offering him a warm smile. He smiles back, just for a moment. “That’s what the tickets are for, actually. The wedding.”

“They’re getting married in France?” you question, to which he nods, “On the first? Isn’t that a little short notice to plan a wedding?”

“I think you’re underestimating the power of Carla Jaeger,” he chuckles, “Apparently, it’s been in the works for a few months now. He proposed with fireworks or some shit. Said she wanted to tell me in person, though.”

“This ticket is for next week,” you say, rereading the dates on the papers. “The wedding is three weeks from now.”

“Well, I kind of figured we could take a little vacation before then,” he grins, “I texted most of the boys earlier, and they can probably come to the wedding, but I want to spend some time with you before it gets hectic, you know? Consider it an end of the semester present.”

Your eyes flicker down to your hand, still wrapped around Eren’s, when he starts to trace circles into your skin, “I thought I just told you, you can’t jet us off to Europe to fix things.”

“You did,” he hums, “And I know I can’t—I’m not trying to, I just… Truthfully, I reserved the plane and the hotel a few weeks back and it really was just going to be a surprise for us—well, more like a gift for you because I know you’ve been busting your ass in chem—but then… everything else happened, and I think a break sounds perfect before I watch my mom get married for the sixth time.”

You watch him continue to toy with your hands for a while, processing your conversation. It was typical of Eren to surprise you like this, so you can’t figure out why this particular present leaves you feeling warmer than usual.

“You sure you don’t need a break from me?”

Eren beams and takes the opportunity to lace your fingers together. “Nah, you’re annoying, but not Jean level annoying.”

You scoff, “I’m telling him you said that.”

“It’ll sound better coming from you, anyway,” he shrugs, “Besides, I might just murder Mitchell if you’re not there with me.”

You chuckle, on the verge of accepting his proposal, but the mention of Jean prompts another thought to cross through your mind. “I’d love to, but I… I don’t know. I don’t want Armin to spend the first few weeks of winter break here all alone.”

This Christmas would mark one year since Armin had seen, or even talked to, any of his immediate family members, with the exception of Erwin.

Last year, you all tried to salvage the damage by sticking around so, at the very least, he didn’t have to feel alone. You and your friends decided that Armin ought to be celebrated, not ostracized for any aspect of himself, so you all chipped in for a cute, impromptu trip to the Catskills so that everyone could be together and close to home.

This year, however, there seemed to be quite a few conflicts of interest. Even if Armin was one of the boys who was planning on attending the wedding, you doubt he had plans leading up to it. You know that Marco, Bertholdt, Mikasa, and Jean had invited him to go to Aspen with them, but Armin declined the offer. Similarly, Connie, Sasha, Annie, Reiner, and Ymir would be off to Dubai as soon as classes ended; an invitation Armin had also turned down.

You weren’t sure what Erwin’s plans were, though you’re certain they involved his own friends in some way or another. At the very least, it was unlikely that he would leave his younger brother completely stranded over the break; but you didn’t want to make plans without knowing Armin wouldn’t be alone.

“He won’t, actually he’ll be closer than you think,” Eren reassures you, “Hange and Moblit wanted to go skiing anyways, so Erwin is taking all of them to the Alps instead of Aspen. Armin doesn’t know yet, but he’s going with them.”

“Shouldn’t Erwin spend his break campaigning, and not skiing? Last I checked, he wasn’t too popular in Queens”

“Ah, you know Erwin,” Eren shrugs, “He has a way of making people devote themselves to him. He’ll win the election with or without campaigning, trust me—the point is, that little baby Armin will be safe and sound under Erwin’s protection, and you don’t have to worry about him.”

“How come you get to call him a baby?”

“Because I’m a hypocritical asshole who doesn’t deserve you, but is hoping you’ll come with me anyway.”

Eren smirks, but there’s a genuine undertone to his words as he moves his fingers to toy with the ring around your pointer finger. The same one he gave to you two Christmases ago. Well, kind of.

The ring he originally gifted you was a Harry Winston piece, with an encrusted band that wrapped into two sunflowers, both made of classic, white diamonds with emeralds sparkling in the center. After seeing the design, and the price tag, you demanded that he take it back, or at the very least, get it sized to fit on your index finger or thumb so that people didn’t get the wrong idea.

Instead, he came back with a simple, silver chain for the original ring to hang from, and the current ring on your finger; a rose gold band with tiny diamonds studded around it. Likely equally as expensive, but more appropriate according to you.

“Fine. But you have to be on your best behavior,” you agree, paying no mind to Eren’s thumb twirling your jewelry, “Do you promise me no drag racing or antics of any sort while we’re there?”

Eren shakes his head at the memory, eyeing the first ring that sits against your chest.

He smiles. “I do.”

The afternoon after your last exam, you bid the remainder of your friends goodbye, grab your bags, and hop on a plane with Eren. It arrives in Paris, but you’re rerouted off to Nice before you can so much as blink at the Eiffel tower; you’d be staying there for the two and half weeks leading up to the wedding, in a small villa.

You had to hand it to him, Eren really outdid himself. It’s dark and nearing three in the morning when you arrive, but even in your sleepy stupor you can admire your accommodations. The villa is secluded, the perfect distance from the water, and decorated lavishly almost to your exact liking. You wouldn’t be surprised if Eren sprung it on you that he’d bought the place, and wasn’t merely renting it for this vacation.

Every day after that, Eren proves he was honest in his intentions of this being a getaway gift to you. He’s planned every activity under the sun—from hot air balloon rides, to helicopter tours, to jet-skiing. The days are certainly fun and filled with beautiful memories, but there’s something special about Nice at sunset; something about the sound of gentle waves brushing up against the beach, and the spotlights carved from sun-cast shadows on the buildings.

It’s just after dinner time, bordering on your eighth night here, when you and Eren are walking along the cobblestone streets that border the beach, the length of your sundress flowing every which way with the breeze, and the tail of Eren’s blazer flailing like a cape behind him.

He looks nice tonight, but, truthfully, he always does. He claimed he hadn’t put on the casual green suit because of your outfit, but you swear he was wearing khakis before he saw your dress. The tips of his ears go red when you tease him about it at dinner, but it doesn’t really matter to you; he would have looked good, regardless. Those suits are made for him, after all; tailored to fit perfectly, and designed by his own mother.

The streets tend to settle down after six, locals and tourists retreating indoors or heading to the beach to relax and draw in the evening. Tonight, however, there’s much more commotion than usual on your route.

“Maybe we should take the long way,” you suggest. On the tips of your toes, you realize that there’s some kind of special event happening in the square, filled with lights and music that grows louder with every step you take.

But the crowd and the lights and the smell of food only piques Eren’s interest. “No way—let’s check it out!”

You don’t have the time to refute before his long legs surpass your own stride, headfirst into the sea of people. You can only follow with a smile and a shake of your head. The soft green of his suit jacket serves as your guide as he navigates through the crowd, but the closer you get to the center, the more people there are.

You can feel palms of your hands growing uncomfortably warm as you become hyperaware of just how many people there are. You clutch the end of your dress in your hand, for both practicality and as a sort of comfort mechanism, as you try your best to calm the anxious wave threatening to crash against you.

With a deep breath, you begin to walk again, unaware of Eren’s actions until you physically walk into his hand, long fingers poking at your belly. You hadn’t realized he stopped walking, or that you’d caught up with him, and your eyebrows crinkle when you look down to see Eren’s left hand extended behind him and towards you, palm facing upwards.

He doesn’t say anything, or look back at you at all. Only wraps his larger fingers around yours when he feels the weight of your hand in his, and continues to guide you through the crowd, his pace slower, and hand firm around yours.

The mass of people becomes more spread out when you approach what appears to be the center of the event; and it looks like a party, maybe a wedding of some sort. There’s food and champagne galore, and more than enough happy guests dancing along to upbeat music in the streets.

Eren’s eyes light up as he takes in the scene, “You wanna dance?”

“What—Eren, no!” you refuse, “We cannot crash these people’s party!”

“Why not?” he counters, without a care in the world, “Seems like an open invitation to me! Come on!”

And for the second time that evening, you find yourself being pulled into his schemes; this time in the direction of the open space dubbed dance floor.

You’re both terrible and ostentatious and people start to watch, but it doesn’t matter because you’re smiling too wide and laughing too hard to care. Eren has a way of moving both with and against the music, forcing your body to follow his lead.

He shouts something over the noise, but you don’t have time to register his words before he laces your right hand with his left, and places his right hand on your waist. There’s a blink of confusion for a moment before you’re being swept off your feet and into a dramatic dip. You don’t have time to secure yourself against his shoulders, but Eren does a fine job of supporting you with a single arm against your back.

From what you can tell the song is far from over and the dramatic pose is completely unwarranted, but you and the crowd alike are victim to his charm. You indulge yourself, looking up at him with eyes too fond to memorize every feature of his face in this moment; the way he’s laughing with that big, dumb, wide smile of his that makes his nose crinkle and his eyes light up.

You’re too busy looking at him to hear Eren’s voice calling out to you, or even realize that he’s moved you from your pose to standing back upright. He’s equal parts amused and concerned at the glazed over look in your eyes.

“Hello? Anybody home up there?” he teases, elongating the vowels and squeezing your waist to alert you.

The reminder of his hands on your hips pulls you back to reality, your eyes fluttering down to his arms, then back to his face. It feels stuffy suddenly, too close to function.

“Yea—yeah! Do you wanna get a drink? Yeah, let’s get a drink!” you exclaim, haphazardly pointing and walking towards the food.

You don’t see it, but Eren looks on with glittering eyes, his verbal agreement heard only by himself as you veer towards the buffet. He can still feel your body in his grip, still see the specks of gold in your pupils as he lingers on the back of your silhouette lovingly. And before you can realize, he snaps himself out of it—an out of body experience similar to yours a few moments ago—before catching up with you.

You end up socializing for much longer than intended. Eren makes friends with everyone, to no surprise, and, uncharacteristically, you feel influenced by his actions, and converse with a few people yourself. You let him take the lead, though. Partially because he’s better at it, and partially because you just like listening to him speak French.

“Hey, we should probably get out of here,” he whispers into your ear after waving goodbye to a lovely couple you’d just met, “Before the host of this party realizes we’re miles better than his actual guests.”

You nod with a smile, more than happy to play by his rules for the evening. He offers you his hand again, that same, dopey smile on his face when you take it.

He leads you out of the crowd and back on to the path to your villa, the smell of warm food and sounds of vibrant music growing dull as you venture further from the celebration. It’s much darker than it was when you began your trek back from the restaurant, but beautiful all the same.

Your sandals pad against the wooden dock that leads up the villa, and Eren unlocks the door silently, ushering you inside before entering behind you.

“I know I said I wanted to leave, but I’m not really tired yet,” Eren confesses, pulling his blazer off of his shoulders.

“Me neither,” you say, placing your small wristlet on the table with a shrug, “What do you wanna do though, I’m not—”

“Great!” he cuts you off, smile too big. You narrow your own in suspicion. That tone of voice with that look on his face usually meant something mischievous, at best. “Remember when you said the first time you’d smoke would be with me, and then pranced away and took a bowl from Hange and got high as shit at Moblit’s party?”

“Why does everyone remember Moblit’s party but me!”

“Don’t worry about it,” he chuckles, waving the topic away, “Anyway… Do you wanna smoke now?”

You blink. “I… did you… smuggle weed all the way to France?”

“No, of course not!” he refutes, “…I got it here.”

You scoff, but don’t have the time to question him further before Eren’s tugging on your wrist and pulling you into the bedroom. You take to sitting on your bed while he rummages through his suitcase to retrieve a small, clear jar with several rolled joints inside and a lighter to match.

He shuffles next to you in the bed, mindlessly handing you the lighter while he unscrews the top off the jar. He takes out two of the joints, places one next to the jar on the nightstand, and tucks the other between his teeth. He asks you to hand him the lighter, and you do so wordlessly, distracted by the sight of Eren’s gaze and the blunt poking out his mouth.

“This’ll be fun, yeah?” He reassures you, “Technically, you let Hange take your weed virginity, but I’ll be better.”

“Can you not phrase it like that,” you roll your eyes, “You already took my virginity virginity, don’t be bitter.”

An all too smug grin settles on his features as he recounts the fact. “Besides,” you tack on, “I’ve never done it like this before. So, it’s still a first, kind of.”

Eren cups one hand around the joint, sparking the lighter with the other until it catches fire. He inhales, slow and deliberate, as if he were putting on a show, or a lesson, of sorts, taking the smoke into his lungs and out through his mouth.

You’d gravely miscalculated how attractive Eren would look doing this. Sure, he’s hot, you knew that, but the pronunciation of his jawline when he exhales, and the confidence with which he drags on the blunt is a stark reminder to you. He takes a few more hits, just as slow and sensual as the first, and the room begins to feel warmer.

“Come closer,” be beckons, smoke rolling off of his tongue with every syllable.

You snap yourself out of the haze of your imagination and scoot closer to him. He silently hands you the joint, and it feels heavy between your fingers. At the distance, you take in the smell—pungent and off-putting, but too familiar.

Eventually, you bring it to your lips, careful not to let your tongue press against the tip, and inhale slowly, like you’d seen Eren do before. You do your best to hold the smoke in your lungs for a bit, but seeing as the last time you did this you were amped up on adrenaline and drunk off your ass, the task proves to be much more difficult. It tickles before becoming uncomfortable and you exhale ungracefully, puffs of smoke punctuating your coughs.

Eren watches with a grin, amused at the sight of you fanning the excess smoke away with your nose scrunched in distaste. “You should have warned me you were gonna cough like a bitch.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you whine, trying to hide the hint of a smile creeping onto your face. You hand the blunt back to him, “You’re supposed to teach me, not tease me, asshole.”

Eren pauses his laughter, unsure of what to make of your tone; rushed, a bit embarrassed, but testy. It’s quiet while he stares at you, trying not to let the implication of your words run wild in his mind; but it’s futile when you’re pouting like that, the room is growing foggier, and he’s been semi-hard since you accepted his offer.

“Fine. Watch and learn,” he breathes, words coming out more jagged than he’d intended.

This time, he completely exaggerates every motion; he inhales at a tantalizing pace and flutters his eyes closed while he lets the smoke swish in his mouth, down his throat, and expand into his lungs. He cranes his neck upwards, and purses his lips to let the clouds exit in the streamline that follows the slope of his jaw.

Maybe it’s the drugs getting to you, but your mind is filled with nothing but sheer clouds that aren’t thick enough to block out thoughts of Eren. The weed is unattractive, potent in smell, and all kinds of wrong; yet, everything about him is soft, sultry, and pulls you in.

“Wanna try again, or do you need another lesson?”

You faintly mutter a profanity under your breath. His words end with giggles, a sign the drugs have already begun to take their effect on him, his expression is still smug. You forget Eren knows just how attractive he is. Motherfucker.

“Actually,” he cuts your train of thought, “I have a better idea, come ‘ere.”

Eren beckons you forward again, closing the gap between your legs so that your knees graze each other under the fabric of your clothing while you’re sat next to each other. He leans over, far too close into your personal space, as if to test something; he freezes when his nose is mere inches from your face, a dissatisfied scrunch taking over his features.

He reinstates his hold on your wrist, motioning your body backwards until your back is against the frame of the bed. He hums in approval, positioning himself next to you again, equally as close, but far more comfortable for what he has planned next.

“I’m—I’m gonna try somethin’, okay?” he stutters, the first word mistakenly coming out in broken German, “Just, don’t freak out on me. It’ll be good, promise.”

You nod, unsure of what you’ve just signed off on, but you don’t have time to ask questions. Eren takes another hit, then passes the blunt to his non-dominant hand. He turns to face you, leans forward, and places his free hand on the back of your neck to pull you closer; the expanse of his palm leaving room for his thumb to venture over the bottom half of your cheek.

Eren pulls you in until your lips are millimeters apart, and he can see the pattern of your eyes in beautiful detail. He shifts his hand now so that the majority of it covers your face, the pad of his thumb running across your bottom lip. He applies the perfect amount of pressure to pry your willing mouth open, and then, finally, exhales.

This time, you can taste it. It’s woodsy, and bitter, but the sweet undertones dance on your tongue. This time, there’s more to think about than just the smoke in your lungs; like the burn of Eren’s hand on your neck; the pressure of his thumb against your bottom lip; the proximity of his lips to yours; the look in his eyes.

“Feel good?” he doesn’t bother to pull away before asking, and the words ghost over your lips with the remaining smoke. You nod; he smiles. “Wanna try again?”

You let out a breathy note of affirmation, and then he’s inhaling and exhaling into you, and you welcome him with pried lips and a heavy thumping in your chest. The confidence with which he maneuvers his body and the drugs is nerve-wracking, yet comforting at the same time; he has an expertise and power that intimidates, but compels you to follow.

Together, you finish the first blunt, and Eren lights the second without missing a beat. His hands are more demanding this around; they guide you into submission, and he’s pleased to find that you’re willing to listen.

After the third exhale, you stop focusing on his hands, and more on his lips. After the fourth, you think you might be high—not to the stars as you infamously were during Moblit’s party—but with a comfortable, dull buzz in your head. Everything feels a little fuzzy, out of touch, but you host a burning want for something more, something tangible.

You don’t know it, but Eren feels the same.

After the fifth exhale, Eren pulls away, the blunt a simple stub as he flicks it away onto the night stand, and you miss him being too close. You miss his hands, you miss his warmth, you crave his touch.

“Eren,” you call, unable to think of or see anything but him in the haze. He answers with a strained, “Yeah?” keening towards the sound of your voice, wide eyes flitting all over your face.

It’s too much, too close, too hot. That’s when you cup his jaw, pull him forward, and meld your lips together.

Kissing Eren is painfully familiar, and unnervingly satisfying. It’s certainly not your first kiss with him; and, yet he has a way of making you feel like it is while reminding you of your history. His lips are soft, and they taste like smoke and the chapstick you swear by because he refuses to buy or test out his own.

You pull away too soon, gauging his reaction with blown-out eyes, before dipping forward to have him against you again. Then again, and again, and again, until Eren is tired of your leaving, and his hands are back on your neck.

This kiss is deeper, Eren searching to satisfy the hunger aching inside of him, and you’re happy to comply when his thumb is pressing at your lower lip again. You open your mouth for him and he doesn’t waste a moment, brushing his tongue against yours experimentally, and then flush into your mouth.

He groans when you rake your fingers into his hair, and pulls back with a hissing noise when you scratch at his nape. Large hands move to grip at your waist, and he pulls you into his lap with a concentrated gaze—a brief second for him to admire the sight of you on top of him, before he resumes kissing you. He sucks on your tongue, rolls his past your teeth, and bites on your bottom lip.

You know he relishes in the sounds he elicits from you, and under any normal circumstance, you’re willing to put up a fight with him, but not now. Now, you let him unzip the back of your dress and snake his hands beneath the fabric. The rubbing motions of his hands turn into gripping, gripping into grinding, and eventually, an unfiltered moan slips past your lips when you feel Eren’s erection roll against you.

“Fuck,” he pulls back with a suck of your swollen lip, “You’re so hot.”

Eren quickly switches your positions so that he’s hovering over you. You chuckle lightly underneath him, taking the opportunity to run both your hands through his hair and cradle his head in your hold, “Haven’t done anything yet.”

“I know,” Eren murmurs, dipping his head down to press kisses into your neck, “Still so sexy. So pretty, always.”

Eren bites a hickey into your collar bone, and everywhere he can touch; your neck, your ears, your cheeks, your lips. Your moaning serves as the spark to keep him going, but he’s barely coherent himself the way you keep pulling at his hair and grinding yourself against him. Even through his clothes, you can feel how painfully hard he is.

He barely catches your tongue between his lips when you moan again, sucking harshly before bruising his lips over yours again. His hands are grabby again, finally pulling your dress completely off of your body, leaving it to form a puddle on the ground. They’re back on your as soon as possible, massaging over your tits, and running his index finger over your nipples.

“Eren... Eren, please,” you whimper, chest heaving as you look down at him. He rolls his index finger over your right nipple, with his left hand teasing the other with his thumb. You can’t tell if the look in his eyes is a product of the weed, or just his glassy, borderline predatory stare, but it makes you shiver with pleasure when he wraps his mouth around your nipple and sucks.

“I want you.”

“Want you, too,” Eren hums, pulling back with a thin trail of spit from your breast, before moving to give your left nipple the same treatment, “More than you know.”

You keen to him when he teases his teeth against you, finally having had enough you force him off of you with a tug of his hair. “Then take off your clothes.”

Eren blinks, wide-eyed but glazed all the same. He chuckles lightly, a blush spreading over his cheeks as he nods. He sits back on his knees, pulling his shirt over his head, forgoing undoing the buttons, and pauses briefly with his hands over the zipper of his pants.

“Please tell me you’re not that gone that you forgot how to undo your zipper,” you tease him, chest still heaving from his previous ministrations. Eren smiles, doe-eyed and hazy, and shakes his head.

“No,” he reassures you, finally undoing his zipper and shimmying his pants off his legs, “Was trying to remember what underwear I was wearing. Didn't want it to be embarrassing.”

His honesty makes you laugh, and Eren pauses for a moment to soak it in. Even like this, even with him stumbling over the steps to undress himself, and you almost completely naked in front of him, he can make you smile. There’s something equally sexy and endearing about your giggles; a juxtaposition that makes him want to hug you or kiss you or something in between. And you—you like the look in his eyes even through your giggling; the way he smiles back and blushes and tells you exactly what he’s thinking.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, “Don’t think mine are particularly sexy either.”

Eren hums, shuffling back on to the bed so that he’s between your legs, and leans forward to kiss you again. He still can’t seem to keep his hands off of you, his fingers immediately flying to your underwear and peeling them off your legs, pulling you closer despite the lack of space between your bodies.

“Yeah, doesn’t matter,” Eren echos, tossing the offending item to the side, before cupping your face in his hands, “I’d still wanna fuck you in your granny panties.”

“You wanna fuck me?” you question, eyes sparkling and hopeful.

“Yeah, I do,” Eren can’t help but to smile again, happy and high and drunk on you, too, “Will you let me?”

Your feverish nodding is all it takes for Eren’s mind to go hazy again; clouded with you, you, you. You pull him into a kiss, arching your body into his, and running your hands down the sides of his back. He moans at the feeling, punishing you by nipping at your lower lip and pressing your stomach back to the mattress with his palm.

Your eyes meet his as Eren lines himself up with your cunt, teasing your folds with the head; but it doesn’t take long before he finally pushes in, sheathing himself inside you completely without movement. He waits a minute, whether it’s to make you comfortable, or to gather his own bearings, you’re not sure; but when he’s ready, he flashes you a smile and waits for one in return, before he starts thrusting.

You know Eren’s not gentle; rough whether or not he intends to be by virtue of his size in comparison to you, but you seem to have forgotten just how capable he is of making you lose your senses. He has you gasping, grasping at him at him unintelligibly, feeling full with his cock inside of you.

Eren groans, borderline growls, when he feels you clench around him, when he sees you shaking beneath him. He could do this all; could watch you all day.

“So pretty, the prettiest. Prettiest girl, my favorite girl,” Eren praises, eyes raking up and down your thrashing body, “My favorite fucking girl.”

“You—you, too.”

“Yeah? I’m your favorite, too?” Eren coos, reaching out to guide your arms over your head, the force of his body pinning your hands down; you can hardly gasp before he lacess your fingers together, and gives you a reassuring squeeze.

“Promised you, didn’t I? That I’d be good to you, be on my best behavior,” Eren reminds you, leaning forward.

He eyes your necklace—eyes glued to ring around it—bouncing with your body. He bends his head down to kiss it, bites at the skin near it; a possessive streak overcoming him as the diamonds shine against you. “I said I’d treat you good, always. Meant it.”

He stutters, when you squeeze him back; fingers tightening around his hold, your pussy clenching around his cock. Your whining is insistent, and mixes with Eren’s low moans and guttural noises. Eren doesn’t let up his pace, fucking you fast and deep, and it’s only a matter of time before you feel a knot twisting in your belly.

You attempt to move your arms, searching for a release of the feeling building up inside of you but Eren is strong; stronger than you, and he keeps you in your place. Keeps your arms pinned above you, keeps his palms pressed into yours, keeps his lips hovering above yours, just out of reach.

“Eren,” you call his name through shaky moans.

“Yeah? What, baby?”

“Kiss me.”

And so he does, his lips needy and hungry over yours. Eren fucks you and kisses you through your orgasm, tasting your moans on his tongue in timing with him cumming inside of you. You don’t let up; kissing him lewdly while you both come down from your highs.

“So good,” Eren croons against your lips, down your jaw, into your skin, “So good for me.”

You both moan in chorus when he finally pulls out, Eren’s head laying on your collar, nose nuzzling into your neck. He lets your hands free, and immediately you wrap them around his back, holding him close as you both attempt to catch your breaths.

You don’t know how long you lay there like that, with Eren on top of you, and your thumb rubbing circles into his cheek while he sleeps soundly. Maybe an hour, maybe more, maybe less; but the euphoria of your sex doesn’t quiet seem to fade.

It might last all night, maybe even for the rest of your trip but you don’t mind. You think back to earlier in the evening, when you’d caught his gaze after your dance. The feeling isn’t all that different; warm, and fuzzy, and too much and not enough all at once. It feels good, it feels like Eren.

You hum softly to yourself, careful not to wake up the sleeping boy on your chest, when you realize exactly what these two moments have in common: a rare event in which Eren is still in front of you, steady and stagnant, no running or chasing; and you don’t want to let him go.

Sometimes Eren thinks you act oblivious on purpose just to fuck with him, because there’s absolutely no way you—or any human with a functioning nervous system and social cues—can’t tell that he’s completely, stupidly, and embarrassingly in love with you.

Long gone are his days of trying to deny it or get over it. He realized that sophomore year of high school—almost eight years ago—that no matter where he went, what kind of drug he inhaled, or how hard he tried, you’d be permanently etched into his heart. That doesn’t make it any less exhausting, and, in fact, only makes it more astounding that you haven’t caught on yet. Honestly, Eren’s considered hiring a private psychiatrist just to make nothing’s wrong with you.

Amazingly, the remainder of your vacation continues just like the former half. The only exception being that now you’re in Paris. And that he’s shamelessly coerced you into letting him fuck your brains out on several occasions. But besides that, everything’s chill.

Just two best friends traveling through France together and stopping to fuck in any semi-private location they can find. Just two peas in a pod walking along the Champs Elysées at damn near midnight. Just two best buds with linked arms tasting (see: feeding each other) every macaron flavor they come across while violinists play stupidly romantic, classical music in the background.

He knows he should probably talk to you about it, but for some reason he can’t. Like telling you would make it all too real, and give it a meaning that could so easily be taken away from him; give you a reason to want to leave him. Right now, it’s just a fantasy, and he’s free to keep dreaming, believing that he’s special and worth enough for the affection you’ve shown him.

He doesn’t want to be one in a list of your boyfriends, or fiances, or husbands; he wants to be your only one, and if he can’t be, then he’d rather be stuck to your side as your best friend. At least that way, in someway, he could remain special to you; not a forgotten, ordinary ex of your past.

Though, a best friend who he’s sleeping with regularly and he’s in love with and will always be in love with is starting to sound a lot like a husband to him. At least, the kind of husband he would like to be to you.

You call his name, asking him if he wants to try another sweet. Eren rolls his eyes. What he wants is to fuck you, and marry you, and have you bless his stupid little existence with two runts for kids that look like him but act like you so his life savings don’t run out by the time they’re twelve. But sure, he’ll settle for having you feed him another macaron in the meantime.

“This one tastes just like the coconut one,” he mumbles, chewing his way through the pastry you’d stuffed into his mouth whole.

It’s the seventh bakery you’ve stopped at tonight, and even though Eren’s growing pretty sick of the sugary treats, he’ll walk with you to every damn bakery in Paris tonight if that’s what you want.

He blinks at the thought. He’s so lovesick it’s disgusting. And he wouldn’t do a damn thing to change it.

“That’s probably because it’s almond and coconut flavored,” you say, wiping the stickiness from your fingers onto a napkin.

“I didn’t taste any almonds.”

“I don’t even think you could spell almond, much less tell me what they taste like.”

Eren simply pouts in refute, leaving you giggling at his expression. He doesn’t know if it’s possible, but you seem even prettier in Paris than in Nice. But, that’s probably his rose-colored glasses speaking.

“You think there’ll be macarons at the reception?” you question, biting into yet another pistachio flavored treat, “And if not, would it be rude to bring my own?”

He chuckles. “Yes, babe, I’m sure there will be macarons there.”

He’s always loved Paris, even when his mom moved away here and left him in New York, and he’d always loved it more when you’re with him. He feared that having to attend another, what he considered to be wasteful, wedding in arguably one of his favorite places in the world would leave a bitter taste in his mouth; but, thankfully, he’s only fallen deeper in love since being here.

“You sure you won’t be sick of them by tomorrow?” he asks, watching you debate between taste testing another variation of vanilla bean or rosé.

“How could I get sick of them?” you answer offhandedly, not sparing him a glance away as you choose the pink snack. How could he get sick of you.

“By the time we get back to New York you’ll have forgotten all about them,” he scoffs.

“Don’t worry I’ll quit it soon. I’ll have to eat something solid if I wanna take my meds and go to bed,” you spew with a smile, unaware of what you’ve actually just said, “But they are delicious and I have no regrets.”

Eren pauses. Then so do you, mouth stuffed with sickly sweet.

“I mean—”

“I know, you know,” he cuts you off, “About the meds and stuff.”

You look like you could pass out, or scream, or cry, or everything in between. Eren figures saying more is better than saying less, so he continues.

“I saw a bottle in the bathroom a few months ago,” he admits shyly, but careful about his tone, “Didn’t understand half the words on the label, but it had your name on it so I just, uh… Googled it.”

Of course he knows. Eren’s always kind of known, just never had the words to express it. He imagines that’s what you’re feeling right now.

“Oh,” you finally gape, “Why didn’t you, um… you know, like, say… anything?”

“It seemed like your secret to tell,” Eren shrugs, features softening out, “Besides, I figured you’d tell me when you wanted to.”

Eren’s always been better at showing than saying, anyway. He hopes that his actions, small as they may seem, might have provided you with any sort of comfort in the past few months. Maybe even before that, too.

“Oh,” you repeat, continually blinking at him, “That’s… that’s it? You’re cool with it?”

Now it’s Eren’s turn to blink. “What do you mean am I cool with it? They’re your meds.”

“Yeah, but like… you’re not mad I didn’t tell—”

“Of course I’m not mad,” he cuts you off with a soft smile, “It’s not really my business. I mean, like, you’re my business because I care about you, but you have your own private stuff, too, which is cool. Besides, when I was, uh, researching it, I learned that it can be hard to tell people stuff like that even if—”

Eren shuts up when he feels your weight against him and your arms wrapped around him. Shell shocked, he takes a moment to hug you back, and slowly comes to rest his chin atop your head after leaving a flurry of kisses.

“You didn’t have to look it up or do any kind of research, you know,” you mumble softly into his jacket. Eren borderline chortles, but only hugs you more tightly.

“Of course I did. If not for you, then for myself, because I meant it when I said I’d never seen half the words on the prescription before in my life,” he replies, heart glowing at the sound of your small chuckles.

He’s expecting an equally witty response, but you surprise him when you pull back just enough to face him, a hazy smile on your face. “You’re amazing, Eren.”

Don’t blush, fool. Don’t blush, fool. Don’t blush—fucking idiot.

“Yeah, I’m pretty great,” he boasts, leaning back into the coolest pose he could muster up while ignoring the growing heat creeping up his neck. It’s all in vain as you reach over to playfully tug at one of his ears.

He thinks you’re pretty like this. All the time, but most notably when he has you in his arms. So pretty, that he has to lean forward to kiss you; you don’t seem to mind, if the way you smile into the kiss is any indication of your feelings. Eren finds himself mirroring your grin; moving his arms from around your waist to the sides of your face.

The workers in this poor little café probably hate the two of you, but he doesn’t fucking care. He’s got his favorite girl in his arms right now, and you taste like almonds and coconuts and like the love of his life.

And he should tell you. Eren wants to tell you, and he finds himself wondering if those same intrusive, fearful thoughts were part of the driving force behind your own reason to keep your secrets from him.

You pull away from him, hands lightly draped around his neck, and you smile like you’re shy—like he hasn’t known you your whole life. Still, Eren finds himself smiling back; and thinks that if you were brave enough to tell him how you were feeling, then he should do the same.

“(_____), I… I gotta tell you something,” he starts, voice soft as his fingers curl around your waist a little more tightly, “Though, I’m kind of hoping you already know.”

You blink at him, almost innocently. Eren bites the inside of his jaw; you’re going to have to stop doing that before he jumps you again.

Better now than never, he supposes. He tries to shake his nerves when he takes your hands in his, completely covering them with his palms, and closes his eyes. Despite that, you try to offer him comfort, squeezing his fingers as best you can; and Eren takes that moment to thank his lucky stars for whoever decided to put you in his life. Because he knows that no matter what, even if he royally fucks this up, you’ll find some way to be there for him.

He slowly blinks his eyes open again, gaze resting on the ring around your neck. A faded chuckle escapes his lips when looks at it. The only one who got the wrong idea about his gift was you. But, he supposes that’s his fault; he never did explain it, after all.

“It’s nothing… It’s just that, I’m in—”

But Eren’s startled by a voice that makes him freeze. He almost wants to believe he misheard it, but he can hear the telltale clacking of vintage heels on the floor of the bakery and he knows that he didn’t mishear a thing.

Eren turns his head, and sure enough, there is his mother, in all her five foot glory, adorned in designer clothing from her beret to her shoes. With a fucking street urchin on her arm.

“Well, well, well, what a lovely surprise,” Carla beams, red lipstick perfectly in place even after a long day of wear.

Eren’s eyebrows draw together, as he takes in his mother and her fiancé standing in front of him. He can just barely register you calling out towards her, carefully maneuvering yourself off of his lap, and into the neighboring chair; but still keeping your right hand wrapped around his left. He can feel you squeeze it—whether to give him comfort, or warning, he’s not sure yet; probably both.

“It’s so good to see you!” you beam, excitedly offering her and Mitchell a seat across from the two of you at the table. Eren opens his mouth to refute, but you squeeze his hand again; a warning.

Carla leans forward to encase you in a hug, exchanging cheek kisses, and leaving Eren to stare at the street rat across from him. Mitchell seems to know better than to make eye contact with him, irises scattering from Carla’s back to the décor of the bakery while the two girls catch up.

“We missed you at the rehearsal dinner on Sunday,” Carla recounts, eyes fluttering to Eren’s briefly. One look into her son’s eyes, and she understands why; one look into his mother’s eyes, and Eren knows she has him all figured out. “I was worried you might not show at all.”

Eren strategically averts your gaze when you turn your head towards him, choosing to look at his mother instead.

“I didn’t even know there was a rehearsal dinner,” you tell her, tone polite, but Eren can hear the clear jab directed towards him, “I’m sorry, I—we would have gone, otherwise.”

“No need to apologize, darling,” Carla smiles, “I’m sure you two were very busy.”

“We were,” Eren cuts in, words definite. He sees a hint of surprise flash in his mother’s eyes briefly, expertly covered up with her sweet demeanor. She only nods in understanding, sitting back a bit to wrap her arm around Mitchell’s.

“What are you even doing here, Ma?” Eren questions, even as you do the same with his hands under the table, “Isn’t it bad luck to see the groom before the wedding.”

“After the third or fourth wedding, you grow tired of pleasantries and superstitions, my love,” she replies, “This place makes Mitchell’s favorite macarons, we thought we’d share a few before the big day. Maybe get some tea as a pre-celebration.”

The topic of sweets has you speaking up once again, engaging both his mother and Mitchell in a discussion about them, and your other findings from bakery hopping earlier. If Eren didn’t love you to pieces, he would have left the table a long time ago.

It carries on much longer than he can bear to endure; almost an hour of you, and his mother, and Mitchell making pleasant conversation while he tries his best not to brood beside you, but it’s futile. He feels like a little kid again. Stuck at the dinner table with his mother and a man he was being forced to get to know, only for him to become a stranger to him in a matter of months.

Eren grinds his teeth into each other when you laugh at something Mitchell says. He’s not going to sit through his any longer; or ever again.

“Well, this has been fun,” Eren says, voice blatantly monotonous as his cuts through the conversation, “But we should all probably head back go to bed. Big day tomorrow.”

“Eren, we should—” but, he stands up quickly, hand wrapping around yours to force you upwards too.

He doesn’t care to look at you, knowing the dissatisfied expression he’ll be met with. He fishes for his wallet and pulls out too many Euros, neatly tucking them under an unused knife to pay for the meal.

Eren’s steps out from between his chair and the table. “We’ll see you guys tomorr—” But is stopped before he can take three steps away.

His mother’s hand wrapped around his wrist. She stands, significantly shorter than Eren’s full height. “Actually, Eren, could I borrow you for a bit?”

And he doesn’t want to, because he knows exactly the conversation waiting for him. But he looks down at her, lets his eyes flicker to you, and back to her, and he knows he doesn’t have the heart to walk away. Not even if he tried.

He sighs with a shallow nod. He can feel your hand on his shoulder, the proud smile on your lips when you tell him that you’ll meet him back at your hotel. Mitchell ensures him and Carla that he’ll make sure you get back safely, and Eren still can’t stand the guy, but he’s grateful that he can at least be of use for something.

Eren kisses you on the forehead briefly, a promise to you and himself that he’ll finish his confession later. After all, he probably should come to terms with the woman who taught him what love is before he vowed to love you for the rest of his life.

The walk to his mother’s hotel is silent, Eren choosing to keep to himself, hands stuffed in his pockets to prevent his mom from holding them. He’s probably acting like a child, but isn’t that what he is to her; isn’t that she treats him as.

“Look, Ma, you don’t need my approval to marry him,” Eren grumbles, when they finally exit the elevator into the hotel room, “It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Of course I don’t,” Carla offers him a small grin, even if he won’t look at her directly, “But it matters to me.”

“Why does it matter now? It didn’t matter with Keith, or Henry, or Henri with an I, or any of the others,” Eren mumbles, reluctantly taking a seat on the stool opposite the vanity.

His mother tracks his movements with soft eyes and an amused grin as Eren absentmindedly bends a knee and begins to fiddle with the hem of his pants. Just like he used to when he was upset as a child.

“It mattered then, too, Eren,” she tells him, sitting on the stool and facing him.

He’s surprised by her words, his wide eyes giving him away even if he attempts to act unfazed. “It didn’t seem like it.”

Carla opens her mouth to speak, but closes it, words stuck in her throat. She watches Eren’s hunched figure, her tall son not even bothering to look her in the eyes. She exhales slowly; if he were five feet smaller, he’d have tucked himself under her arm, still refusing to look at her, but he’d have snuggled his head into her side while he pouted anyway.

“I suppose it didn’t,” she admits, “In the end, the love wasn’t enough to make it last, then.”

Eren is quiet for a bit at that, pulling at his pants leg. “And… and you love him enough, now?”

“It’s more than love, Eren. It’s... happiness—for yourself and another person—it’s being okay with somebody knowing you now, and forever. Whichever version of you that is.”

“Then why did you marry them before?” Eren asks, “If you knew it wasn’t enough, if you knew it was just going to end up as another big mistake.”

“Maybe the marriages were a mistake, and some of what came with them, but I don’t think the feelings were,” Carla muses, “Love is never wasted.”

“How can you say that?” Eren questions, disbelief and exasperation painted on his face, “Of course it is—you wasted your time, and your money, and your—your everything on those people who couldn’t care less about you now!”

“Eren—”

“You let them into our house,” Eren speaks over her, “You let them into your life, and they left. They always left—”

“Eren—”

“—And you even let some of them come back! Everyone, you let everyone have another chance, another anniversary, another wedding,” He’s ranting, crying, hot, irrational tears streaming down his face; hiccups interrupting his speech, “So—so, so if it’s not wasted and everyone gets another chance and another chance and another chance—why didn’t he come back, huh? For his?”

Eren’s standing now, arms flailing every which way during his breakdown, but his mother doesn’t try to stop him. She lets him continue, hears him out.

“If it’s love—if it’s not wasted, and it’s real—then why didn’t he come back? Why didn’t he want to? Why—why didn’t he want me? Why did I end up the bastard?”

Eren looks his mother in the eyes for the first time in the duration of their conversation with that final question; with his vision blurry, and chest heaving, and cheeks wet. Carla has no words to say; can only carefully open her arms, and wait for her son to come crashing into them. And he does; and it rains and pours, and Eren holds onto his mother for dear life, and onto the pieces of her breaking heart.

“Am I not good enough to have that kind of love?” Eren asks through tears, “Am I not special enough to want to know?”

“Eren,” she finally speaks, moving to cradle his head in her hands, “You don’t have to be special or good, to be known or loved. It’s enough that you were born. That’s enough to make you deserving of love.”

She doesn’t mind the tears against her palms or the hiccups of Eren’s breathing, “And you already have it.”

And Eren looks at her with eyes wide and wild like a child, staring at the first person to have ever loved someone as messed up, and plain, and ordinary as him; and he can feel more tears bubbling at his eyes.

“Ma, I’m—I’m so sorry,” he chokes out, wrapping his arms around her even tighter, chin resting on her shoulder while his shake through his tears, “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Carla hugs her son as close as she can, like he’s five years old and the apple of her eye and she can take all his pain away. “You don’t have to be. You’re my son, and I’ll love you always.”

It feels like they have all the time in the world like that, to hug and cry and apologize; but Carla hopes Eren knows that he was always forgiven; that he never had anything to apologize for in the first place.

“She loves you, too, baby,” she coos, holding Eren as tight as possible, “But you have to let her know that. That you accept it.”

“Do you think she knows?” Eren asks, words muffled into the fabric of her clothing, “That I love her, too?”

“I do,” Carla confirms, pulling away to look at Eren in the eyes; his beautiful, shining, green eyes, “But I don’t think that either of you really realized it. I mean, you did give her an engagement ring, darling.”

Eren huffs at the memory, “She thought it was a gift.”

“Because you gave it to her as a gift.”

“I thought it was pretty obvious.”

“Love has a way of making people blind,” Carla muses, “Especially two lovesick semi-adults with too much money on their hands.”

Eren’s cheeks grow pink at the accusation, “It’s your money!”

“Yes, and I’m very happy to have it,” Carla chuckles, motioning for Eren to stand up. He does, and she looks up at him with glimmering, proud eyes. “Now, go, shoo. You have a girl to propose to, don’t you? There might be two Jaeger weddings this weekend.”

Eren nods, certain of himself for the first time in a while. He turns on his heel with a vigor igniting his footsteps, but pauses when he reaches the elevator. He makes a sharp turn, running back to his mom one last time, and squeezing her suddenly, and tightly against him.

“I love you, mom,” he says; the words too foreign on his tongue, and he vows to not let them be a stranger to his vocabulary from here on out.

“I love, you, too, Eren,” Carla calmly wraps her arms around her son one last time, “And I always will.”

You half-expected your walk back to your hotel with Mitchell to be painfully awkward, but he proves to be a pleasant conversationalist, even in Carla’s absence.

You know that Eren isn’t fond of him, but you wish that he would at least give him a chance. There’s no way to know if a marriage—if any relationship—will last forever, but, sometimes, you think it’s not about knowing about forever; but, rather about wanting it to make it there; about willing to go the distance with that person.

You can see that want, that willingness that works alongside love in Mitchell and Carla’s relationship, that stands out from her past marriages. You get the feeling they’re going to last; and that, most importantly, they both want it to, too.

It’s quiet out as you both walk the streets of Paris, Mitchell taking the time to point out small notes in architecture that interest you. You readjust your jacket as a gust of wind washes over you, careful to make sure your necklace doesn’t snag against your clothing.

“That’s a beautiful ring,” he calls to you gently.

“Thank you,” Surprised, you quickly let out an embarrassed cough, looking down to your left hand resting atop the uppermost button on your coat. “It was a gift.”

“I meant that one,” Mitchell corrects, carefully gesturing to his own neck to indicate that he was talking about the ring on your necklace, and not the one on your finger.

“Oh, thank you,” you repeat, “That one was actually a gift, too.”

The older man hums, continuing your walk to your hotel. “Must have been one hell of a gift. I don’t know many people who give out engagement rings as presents.”

“Oh, no, no, no, it wasn’t—it’s not an engagement ring,” you tell him, feeling a warmth creep up your cheeks even in the chilly atmosphere of the night, “Eren gave it to me, actually, a few years ago—it was a Christmas gift.”

“Eren, huh?” Mitchell smiles fondly, “That makes sense. Carla tells me how much he cares about you.”

“You—she does?” you stutter. Mitchell nods. “I—I mean, I care about him, too.”

“Enough to accept an engagement ring from him, it seems,” Mitchell taunts, “I’m no specialist, but I know a Harry Winston piece when I see it. They’re not cheap.”

“Trust me, I know,” you scoff, “I almost killed him when I saw how much he spent on it.”

“And you took it, anyway?”

“Well, he—he was supposed to return it,” you defend yourself, “Because I didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea! But he just, well, he gave me the other one instead, so I wear that one on my hand.”

Mitchell pauses, just as you both stand to the entrance of your hotel. “And what was the wrong idea you didn’t want people getting.”

“That... that...,” you pause, thinking back to that Christmas day.

Even though Eren is known for spending ludacris amounts of money, the ring came as a genuine surprise to you. A couple thousand on shoes, sure—you’re victim to that yourself; a couple hundred thousand on a lavish vacation wasn’t out of the ordinary, either; but a million, maybe even more, on a ring that you could have only ever asked of him in your dreams was another thing completely.

And, sure, even a few million didn’t mean much to you or Eren at the end of the day, but it wasn’t just the price; it was the object of the money, too. To accept a house, or a car, or a jet for that amount is something you could rationalize; but a ring seemed foreign, and far out of your league.

Then there was the display and value it held beyond money. It’s beautiful, gorgeous, but more than that, it’s tailored to your exact liking. The synthesis of your aesthetic and everything you could ask for, garnished with the memory of Eren in the very design; the diamonds you love, the flowers that remind him of you, and the way they stems wrap around each other and the petals meet in the middle.

A small gasp leaves your lips and instinctively, you reach to clutch the ring in your hold. There was no way this was an engagement ring... Eren hadn’t proposed to you when he gave it to you—in fact, he was so casual about it, that it had you stunned that he hadn’t thought to consider that other people might think it meant something more than what he intended it to be.

But, looking back, it seems like you’re the only one who didn’t understand what was going on. Because Eren told you, even then, that he’d wanted you forever; you didn’t know how to hear him. It was all right there—not just in the ring, but in all his gifts, in the entirety of your friendship.

Eren loves you, more than you could ever know.

“It’s an engagement ring,” you say aloud, but more to yourself than to Mitchell, “Oh my god, it’s an engagement ring.”

Mitchell can’t do anything but smile at your revelation. You’re practically bouncing off the walls, connecting the puzzle pieces of your relationship in the middle of the street at damn near midnight, but you don’t care; because it finally feels right, and it finally, finally all makes sense.

“He, but he never pro—oh my fucking god, I’m going to kill him.”

You feel elated and confused and happy and murderous all at once. Eren wanted to marry you; Eren loved you. He wants you for the rest of his life, and you’ve been too blind to see it this entire time.

Still, you think that maybe a verbal proposal might have helped to open your eyes a bit.

“Mitchell, I have to—”

You’re cut off by the echo of your name coming from the opposite end of the street, and you can just barely make out of Eren’s figure in the faded lights of the street lamps. His name falls from your lips like a whisper, and you hardly register Mitchell’s amused, soft laughter from beside you.

“I think that’s my cue,” he says, patting you on the shoulder, “I better get back to Carla. Something tells me you two have a bit to talk about.”

You can barely nod at him, eye still wide and stunned, but a smile on your face even in your fearful anticipation. You don’t have time to thank him before he turns away, bidding you goodnight; and then you have something else to focus on, as Eren’s footsteps grow louder, and his silhouette grows sharper the closer he gets to you.

He practically crashes into you, chest heaving, hair wind-swept and wild from his running. He puts his hands on your shoulders, to steady himself physically and mentally, labored breaths ghosting over the top of your head.

“Hi,” he finally squeaks; and that stupid, big, dopey grin is on his face.

It’s ridiculous, so utterly ridiculous that you can’t help but greet him back. The two of you stand there, smiling like fools for god knows how long, before the realization strikes you for a second time.

Eren opens his mouth to finally speak, but a pained squeal leaves his lips instead as he feels the back of your hand slap his chest. “Ouch—hey, what was that for!”

“What the hell do you think you were doing proposing to me without telling me?” you screech, packing another punch to his chest for good measure, but it’s a poor barrier and does nothing to stop your tears from falling, “You’re an idiot, I should kill you for this, you know that, Eren Jaeger?”

Eren laughs softly, only to be heard by you in close proximity. He takes your offending hand in his, and reaches for your other, pulling both of them between your bodies. He can feel tears welling in his own eyes, as he looks down at the necklace, glimmering perfectly under the moonlight.

“In my defense, the first thing you told me to do when I gave it to you was to return it.”

“I might not have said that if you told me what it meant,” you can hardly choke out a laugh through your tears; and Eren can’t stop his from falling either, “It’s insane, you know. This whole thing—to ask me to marry you at 19. For me to not realize until we’re 21.”

“I know,” Eren agrees, inching closer even though there’s barely any room between you, “I know. But I know I love you, every version of you. I always have, I always will.”

You close your eyes as Eren’s hands move to your face, gingerly sweeping your tears away from your cheeks. He feels too close, it feels like too much; but you don’t want him to move.

“You know... if you had asked me, then,” you start, blinking your eyes open with a sniffle; you’re met with Eren’s emerald greens one with far too much hope and love glimmering in them, “I—I don’t even know what I would have said.”

“And if I asked you now?”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, slowly raising your hands to wrap around Eren’s wrist, and lower them to your neck, before looking at him again, “Ask me.”

Eren blinks, carefully trailing his hands up and around your neck, nimble fingers undoing the clasp of your necklace. He hardly lets the chain pool into his hand before it’s tossed aside, and the ring is still between his thumbs and index fingers as he lowers himself on to one knee.

“You are the love of my life, and there’s not a single version of life—a single version of you, or me—where I don’t want to be with you forever,” Eren says, “And you know how shit I am with my words, but I fucking mean it. I swear to you, that I’ll do my best every day to show you how much you mean to me; marry me, and I’ll prove it to you, I swear, I will.”

Your lips are wobbling at Eren’s confession below you, and you can just barely beckon him upwards in your state. He’s hardly back on two feet before you’re pulling him against you, ghosting the word “yes” on his lips before you kiss him.

You both melt into the kiss, Eren’s hands skillfully cupping your cheeks, while he keeps the ring in his hold and bruises your lips together.

“You don’t have to prove it to me, Eren,” you assure him, hand shaking when you pull apart and let him slip the ring onto your finger—where it belongs, “You already have.”

For his first birthday as a married man, Eren requested something intimate. He wanted just a small celebration with all of your mutual friends, some good food, alcohol, and lots of fun.

Supposedly simple and intimate for him entailed renting out the top floor of the Whitney, which was currently encasing an exhibit portraying some kind of abstract modern art that allowed for a very drunk Eren and Armin have to entertain themselves by trying their best to recreate the paintings using very flawed couples aerial yoga.

The art, paired with the dimmed lighting, Jean’s choice selection of overtly sexual music, and Eren’s pick of overpriced champagne also meant that Marco, Bertholdt, Connie, and Sasha found everything ten times funnier than they were—which meant they were a million times louder than usual.

Jean stands next to you by the bar, watching as Eren attempts to hold Armin above his head by holding on to just his waist. They’re unsuccessful, of course, resulting in both boys toppling onto the ground as the majority of their older friends laugh along.

“Lucky me, I get to take him home at the end of the night,” you drawl, turning to the bartender to order another drink.

She smiles, easily preparing your martini and sliding it you with an inquiry. “That’s your boyfriend? The tall one with the brown hair?”

“No,” you sigh, eyes closed for a moment before taking the glass between your fingers. “That’s my husband, unfortunately.”

× even more notes: this fic. is my baby. it’s been a draft of mine for over two years at this point. it’s gone through various fandoms but i’ve never quite been able to complete and post it, so i’m very happy that it’s finally here! i hope you all enjoyed, and i just wanted to say that i’m glad to finally have been able to share this with you all!

#attack on titan #aot x reader #snk x reader #eren x reader #aot imagines #snk imagines #eren smut #eren fluff #levi x reader #I DONT WANNA TALK ABOUT IT

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