FIVE HUSBANDS
˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕𝐈𝐈 || 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐍𝐄 ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗
˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗
˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 || 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗
♡ — 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: eren, armin, connie, jean, levi, & reiner x celebrity reader
♡ — 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: With a big change coming into your life — and after shocking your old lovers with an unexpected decision — not all of them are ready to let go of you just yet, except for one person.
The celebrity lifestyle is a deadly game of love, manipulation, secrets, wealth, and nosy paparazzi, and not everyone can win. However, there’s one person you need to watch out for more than anything: the obsessed one.
WARNING: THERE ARE MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THIS CHAPTER IN THE CONTENT WARNINGS BELOW.
♡ — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: 18+ ONLY || MINORS DNI || DARK CONTENT — fem reader, modern au, slight smut, heavy angst, marriage, cheating, major violence & blood, gun mentions, pregnancy, miscarriage, false imprisonment, toxic relationship, manipulation, stalking, murder talk, suicide ideation, drinking, character struggles to eat, illness, hospitalization, vomiting, & major character death.
♡ — 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 15k
♡ — 𝐀/𝐍: Hi folks! This is a long chapter, I’m sorry, but out of all parts, this one I have enjoyed writing the most. I can’t believe the series is almost over! We have the finale after this!
— YEARS AGO - NEW YORK CITY —
When walking into the bakery, one was often greeted by the sweet smell of freshly baked pastries and desserts. Cakes and cobblers, brownies and pies — every mouth-watering treat a customer with a sweet tooth could ever want.
The sugary scents would often stay with the employees, too. Armin Arlert in particular always smelled like cinnamon rolls after spending hours upon hours preparing them throughout the day. No matter how many times he washed his clothes or lathered his body in soap, the hard-working baker’s natural scent was bread and cinnamon.
Around the bakery, the joke of the century was that when Armin would sweat, he’d sweat sugar.
At work, the only time he wasn’t spreading the brown sugar mixture onto the dough, rolling it, and shoving it into the oven was when he had to work the cash register.
Oh, how the customers gawked at that gorgeous baker.
More sweets were often sold when Armin was leading the sales, as he could convince anyone to buy anything with his kind customer-service smile and big ocean-blue eyes.
What caught your attention one day was the sight of him interacting with the curious, wide-eyed children who’d often waddle into the bakery.
“See somethin’ you want, honey?” A young mother once said to her son on a Christmas Eve night, holding the little boy’s hand as they darted their eyes between every baked item behind the glass display beneath the countertop.
“Uhhh,” the child frowned. He wanted everything. It was such an overwhelming decision.
“Too many options to choose from, huh?” Armin looked down at the young boy from over the cash register, smiling kindly. “Do you like chocolate?”
The boy shook his head as a way of saying no.
“What about icing? Or frosting?”
The boy shrugged shyly.
“Alright, give me a second,” Armin started to walk away, then hesitated, turning around to face the boy’s brown-haired mother. “He’s not allergic to anything, is he?”
“He’s not,” she smiled, speaking with a bit of a southern accent despite being in New York City. They must have been traveling and wanted a sweet treat that reminded them of home.
Armin nodded, and suddenly, he appeared over your shoulder, where you were mixing brownie batter in a big silver bowl.
“Hey,” speaking softly, he said, “have any extra cinnamon rolls?”
You turned around to face him, and when you did, he ran his thumb across your cheek, wiping off a line of frosting.
“Yeah, they’re over there,” you quickly pointed at the extra cinnamon rolls sitting on the stainless steel prep table, next to an extra batch of chocolate chip cookies.
“You’re a mess,” he teased, walking toward the sink to wash his hands.
��I’d like to see you stay clean after baking this many desserts by yourself,” with a teasing tone of your own, you grinned and said, “I know we’re short-staffed, but I can’t believe they let you work the cash register. Can you even count?”
“Says the person who made almost double the amount of cinnamon rolls. Can you read? The recipe, I mean?”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up,” Armin suddenly flicked his wet hand at you, dots of water sprinkling onto your skin.
Your little shriek made his heart swell.
As he dried off his hands and grabbed a spare cinnamon roll, he saw that the young mother was grinning as she watched the interaction between you two.
After all, she knew what love looked like.
“Alright little guy,” Stepping from behind the counter, Armin kneeled in front of the shy child with messy, brown hair, and he held out a cinnamon roll. “Wanna break off a piece and try this? I think you’d really like it. If not, we can try some cake, okay?”
The child nodded, and hesitantly, he broke off a piece with his little fingers, and bit into it.
His big brown eyes widened with childlike wonder, and the goofy grin that suddenly appeared on his face was a telltale sign that Armin helped this kid create a cherishable memory.
Armin couldn’t help but smile too.
“It’s good!” The kid instantly broke off another piece — and rather quickly, as he almost knocked the cinnamon roll out of Armin’s hand.
“I’m glad you like it.”
“Can we get one cinnamon roll then, please?” The mother asked Armin with a smile.
“Of course,” Armin rose to his feet and went behind the register. “Would you like anything for yourself, ma’am?”
“No thank you.”
Armin looked into the woman’s eyes. She was young, not much older than he was, but the bags under her eyes from utter exhaustion made her seem much older. Then, Armin glanced down at her hands.
He instantly recognized those hands.
Pale skin that was rough and scarred from working hard — they looked just like his own hands.
Finally, Armin looked at her clothes.
Her son was dressed perfectly for the chilly New York City weather, bundled up from head to toe in a blue, thick coat and warming pants, but she simply wore a thin grey cardigan — one that was obviously worn out.
The mother and son had also walked into the bakery with three bags of luggage.
And while Armin couldn’t and wouldn’t know their entire backstory, if they were homeless, on the run from someone, or anything of the sort — he knew one thing.
That woman desperately needed a little bit of joy.
“We have a buy one get one free sale going on today,” Armin lied. “So, if you buy the cinnamon roll, you can get something else to go with it. Anything you’d like.”
“For real?” The woman smiled brightly. “Then, I guess I’ll have . . . an apple turnover. I haven’t had one of those in years.”
The woman was beaming as brightly as her son was when he bit into the cinnamon roll.
“Alright, give me just a minute and I’ll have that right out of you.”
When Armin turned around, you gave him a peculiar look as you put two trays of brownie mix into the bakery oven. There wasn’t any sort of sale going on, and you both knew that.
When Armin packed their bag, he gave them two cinnamon rolls and two apple turnovers instead of one of each.
Armin returned to the counter with a bag that was much heavier than it should have been.
“Alright, that’ll be $3.75,” Armin said.
When the woman placed the money in his hand, he didn’t put it into the register. Instead, he slickly grabbed a handful of napkins from underneath the counter, covered her money with it, and put it right into her bag.
And with that, the woman and her son left with four free desserts, and Armin said, “Happy holidays.”
Perhaps, he would lose his job for giving away free food, and end up in an even worse position than that woman herself, but he didn’t care that much.
He could only imagine the smile that would grace her freckled cheeks once she realized that he didn’t take any of her money and gave her and her boy free sweet treats for Christmas.
“You’re crazy, you know that?” You said, snapping Armin out of his thoughts.
Armin leaned across the counter a bit to make sure that the little brown bakery was empty, and then he turned to face you.
“Are you gonna rat me out?”
“I didn’t see a thing,” you grinned, then suddenly, your smile faded. “But if you get caught, you’ll get-”
“I know,” stepping towards you, he smiled down at your face, which had somehow managed to get another line of white frosting across it.
“The bakery needs me though, so I think it’ll be fine. It was worth the risk.” Once again, Armin wiped off your cheek with his thumb. “How are you always getting frosting on your face?”
This time, Armin licked the frosting off of his thumb, smearing the small bit of glaze across his tongue.
“It’s good, though. Nice job,” he said, staring into your eyes.
“That’s nasty,” a playful grimace appeared across your face, and you stepped away.
Softly, classic Christmas songs played through the cheap speaker.
After having to hear the same ten ballads repeatedly throughout the holiday season, you had quickly gotten sick of every verse.
Every melody.
But, for some reason, you didn’t mind it today.
“Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” by Frank Sinatra was currently playing.
What a beautiful song it was.
Perhaps, one would even say it was the only Christmas song you hadn’t grown tired of hearing just yet.
“You like this song?” Armin asked, grabbing a rag and wiping down your baking station. “You started smiling when it came on.”
“Yeah, but that’s not why I’m smiling,” your soft grin only grew wider. “I was just thinking about how nice you were with that kid earlier. You’d make a great father someday.”
“You think so?” Tossing the rag over his shoulder, Armin turned to face you as he leaned against the prep table.
“Mhm. Do you plan on having kids one day?”
“Maybe, I don’t know. I mean, I’d like to, but only if I could actually afford to have a family.” Armin paused. “I wouldn’t wanna subject my future children to poverty. No way would I purposely let them go through what I’ve gone through. What about you?”
“If I met the right person, then yeah. And if I could afford it. Same as you.” Looking up at Armin with an expression he couldn’t quite recognize, despite having known you for years, you said, “I’d have kids with you, I think.”
Armin couldn’t tell if you were joking or not.
Your friendship had always revolved around playful flirting, and being comfortable enough with each other to say such thought-provoking things that always made his heart skip a beat, but this time, he wasn’t certain if your spoken words were something he should take seriously.
Even in the face of uncertainty, Armin laughed softly. But he couldn’t control the faint dust of pink that appeared across his cheeks.
“Two bakers having a kid would be something else. All of their friends would wanna come to our house all the time to get free desserts and stuff.”
“That’s true.”
Suddenly, Armin grabbed the rag from off of his shoulder, tossed it on the counter, and grabbed ahold of your wrist.
“What are you doing?” You questioned.
“I don’t know. I’m bored. Dance with me.” He pulled you closer. Placing your hand on his shoulder, he moved his own hand to your waist. With his other hand, he held yours and raised it, as you both slowly started to dance.
“This is so embarrassing,” you said with a sheepish grin. “Why are we dancing in the middle of a bakery? You’re gonna make me burn the brownies.”
“Be quiet for once, please. And we have plenty of brownies because you already made double what the recipe required. I had a feeling you couldn’t read.”
Together, you both swayed and waltz rather casually and playfully, nearly stepping on each other’s toes multiple times, but none of that mattered. You both filled the air with warm laughter as Armin spun you around.
As the beautiful song came to an end, Armin looked into the eyes of the only woman he would ever want to have kids with, and silently, he hoped that someday, his dream would come true.
—
— BEFORE THE MEETING - LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA —
Five phone calls were made — all short, to the point, and lacking any sense of warmth or danger that your old lovers had expected when they all saw your caller ID flash across their cell phone screens.
Everyone received the same instructions.
CS Records. Ten o’clock.
Your thumb pressed the red button to end the very last phone call.
A few seconds later, that horrifically familiar swirl of nausea started to bubble within your gut. Black high heels clicked against the gorgeous natural stone marble floor of Connie Springer’s mansion. You rushed to the nearest bathroom — not fully running. Drawing any attention to yourself was the last thing you wanted.
You puked into the incredibly expensive smart toilet with an auto-opening lid.
Right now, the auto-cleaning feature would come in handy too, but perhaps, trying to be discreet was pointless.
After all, your morning sickness wasn’t the quietest noise in the entire world, and at this time of day, one of Connie’s maids — Bernice — would have been close by. Close enough to hear it.
In fact, the middle-aged woman was standing right outside of the bathroom door with her cart of cleaning supplies.
“Good morning,” the short lady greeted once you stepped out into the hallway.
“Good morning,” you replied, a hint of nervousness in your voice.
The woman’s eyes scanned you from head to toe. You shifted nervously.
After all, she had three children of her own.
While you weren’t showing just yet — perhaps a bit bloated — you still wore baggier clothes. Took more trips to the bathroom. Appetite started to change. More exhausted than usual.
And, of course, the morning sickness.
“Are you alright? Do you need anything?” The woman tilted her head a bit.
“I’m fine,” you lied. “Just ate something I shouldn’t have.”
“Alright, well, have a good day,” the woman smiled softly, pulling her cart along with her once you stepped to the side, letting her enter the bathroom. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you had a bun in the oven.”
You weren’t shocked by her statement. Instead, you felt rather pissed.
“Well, it’s a good thing you know better.”
The clicking of your heels against the floor filled the silence as you walked away.
Being pregnant right now would ruin everything. Your career — a lifestyle that only a few extraordinarily lucky people would ever achieve — would cease to exist the minute your pregnancy would hit the news.
Well, not immediately, perhaps.
Your name would appear in every eye-catching headline as articles and entertainment news channels would gossip about your infamous love life, and who the baby could potentially belong to.
But, then, the news would die down, drowned out by the next biggest celebrity scandal.
No one would like the idea of a pregnant woman going on tour and performing concerts. Filmmakers certainly wouldn’t want to cast you at a certain point, either.
And not every celebrity can successfully make a comeback after giving birth. Especially one well known for their scandals more so than their talent.
You didn’t care about fame — not truly. If you lost it, then being in the spotlight would become a distant, unpleasant memory.
But you did care about money.
But, just maybe, having a child was the one way you could guarantee an abundance of wealth for the rest of your life.
It was a sick and twisted plan, but that was why the only person in the world who knew about your pregnancy was the incredibly wealthy entrepreneur, Connie Springer.
And you were determined to make him your next husband.
—
When you told your old lovers to no longer chase after you, their reactions were exactly what you had expected. The scenario of tonight had replayed in your mind over and over again, and the real deal was just as accurate as it was in your imagination.
Except for one thing.
Wrapping your arms around Levi Ackerman, and telling him that you were pregnant.
The confession fell from between your lips before you knew it.
At the time, you only wanted to do anything to discourage your lovers from continuing to chase after you, and you had hoped he would keep your secret and somehow convince the others that you were no longer worth pursuing.
However, there was a lot of potential conflict that you had now created.
For all you know, he would run in front of the flashing cameras and invasive microphones and air out your business to the nosy, gossiping Hollywood streets to reclaim his lost relevancy before you had the chance to secure your own wealth for the future.
No.
He wouldn’t do something like that.
He wasn’t the type of man who would tell someone.
But, even so, there was still the fact that he knew.
And him knowing could ruin everything.
After the short meeting with your past lovers, the car ride back home with Connie in the driver’s seat was completely silent aside from the background noise of the streets of Los Angeles that occurred outside of your rolled-up passenger seat window.
The occasional sound of a booming radio from cars that drove by. A honk or two once the red lights changed to green. The sound of laughter or shouts from pedestrians on the street.
All of it filled the deafening silence that existed between you and Connie, but, for the first time, you weren’t worried about what that quietness had meant.
You already knew.
Connie was in shock. It was obvious from the way he constantly changed his grip on the black steering wheel — holding it with one hand, then two, then back to one.
He just didn’t expect that you would stay with him, that this time, when you were riding in his car on the way to his mansion, it was your own choice.
The bubbling noise associated with the infamous L.A. streets dwindled into comforting quietness — the sort of silence that only incredibly wealthy people could afford — as you both arrived closer and closer to Connie’s home.
On this side of town, where billionaires and millionaires alike lived in peace, their homes were big enough to house several families and not have to deal with annoying neighbors. Even you, despite the bit of wealth you had accumulated in your career so far, couldn’t easily afford to rent a room in one of their homes.
But, perhaps, you soon would.
Soon, you would be able to call one of the biggest houses on this side of town your own, as Connie pulled up to it, and drove through the entrance gate.
When you and Connie rode the elevator up to the main floor of his home, you turned your head in every direction and happened to notice none of his overpaid servants rushing over to tend to you and him.
“Where is everyone?” You questioned, your words followed by three soft coughs.
Some of his staff had certainly gone home for the night — as they worked a seven to five shift Monday through Friday — but some of them were live-in employees, such as his chef and security — or, rather, his Silent Men.
“I sent everyone home,” Connie admitted casually.
“Why?”
Connie made his way into the lavish living room and collapsed down on the couch. He rubbed his eyes tiredly.
“‘Cause I know your crazy ass exes are probably gonna follow us here.”
“They’re not going to do that,” you frowned, standing to the side of the couch, but not bothering to sit down just yet.
“Don’t be stupid,” Connie rested his hand over his mouth as he spoke. His hazel eyes were glistening with concern. “You think they’re just gonna believe you suddenly wanna stay here? I was even surprised when you got back in my car, and I know the reason. You should’ve told them. They’re gonna find out anyway.”
Little did he know, you did. One of them, at least.
“We can’t tell them yet,” you sat down on the couch and ran your hand across Connie’s thigh in a comforting way.
Connie was silent for a moment, paying no mind to your hand on his thigh. A comforting touch did little to soothe the neverending worries and unsettling thoughts racing through his scattered mind.
He thought about who he was as a human being. Everything he had done in the past. Everything he was currently doing, along with what he could see himself doing in the future.
Connie turned his head, his eyes meeting yours.
“I can’t become a father.”
You sighed softly, not out of irritation, but understanding.
“Listen to me.” You grabbed ahold of his hand, speaking as if you were playing a part in a film. Connie, however, was unaware of the figurative camera. “It’s not too late to become a good person. I want to have this baby, and I want you to be in our lives. All the money in the world can’t compare to the love of a family.”
Connie looked at you out of the corner of his eye, frowning in disbelief.
“Please shut up. You don’t have to try and sound all poetic. I’m not ready to be a father and that won’t change.”
Suddenly, Connie snatched his hand away from yours, and he got off of the couch and started to walk away.
“Wait,” you called out. “So what am I supposed to do, then? Raise it by myself? You know how Hollywood treats pregnant women. If I lose everything, then I’ll become a failed artist associated with your company and your name. I’d also hate for your reputation to get ruined because everyone would know that you fucked one of your artists, and left the mother of your child and your baby all alone. There’s also the fact that you kept me locked away and under your control, too. You can get rid of me somehow if you want, but too many people know the truth about you now, and someone will say something.”
Connie’s footsteps came to a halt. At that moment, when your words seeped into his brain until his fists clenched at his side, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was how Eren felt that day when Connie forced him to divorce you and told him the consequences of not doing what he wanted.
At the time, Connie had power over Eren.
Now, you had power over Connie, all in the form of that fetus growing in your belly.
“It’s your choice,” you added on, your tone both soft and yet, threatening as well. “When you manipulate someone, you inevitably end up teaching them all of your tricks.”
Connie bit into the flesh inside of his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. His fists started to tremble.
He’d kill you.
He’d do it.
He didn’t care who you were.
He didn’t care who would find out.
No one would ever have him on a leash like a dog.
But, then, he couldn’t. Even if he could toss money into the hands of the justice system to get himself out of trouble, you were right. Too many people knew what kind of man he was.
Eren Yeager. Jean Kirstein. Levi Ackerman. Reiner Braun. Armin Arlert. Mikasa Ackerman. Erwin Smith.
He couldn’t kill all of them.
He didn’t want to, either.
Murder was not a fun little hobby of his, but something to be done when necessary.
No amount of money would be able to clean his hands of that much blood.
But, there was a part of him that truly didn’t mind being with you. It was that small piece of desperation and loneliness that drove him to sleep with you, to begin with.
It was a warm and vibrant Saturday night, and Connie had returned home from a party to find you in the rec room playing air hockey by yourself. He decided to join you for a couple of games — much to your surprise — and you couldn’t be certain, but you had sworn a smile appeared upon his face for a brief second.
Laughing together in the entertaining rec room led to making out in his opulent bedroom. Eventually, you were lying on your back in his thick bed, gripping the soft grey sheets while moaning softly as Connie thrust in and out of you.
He was the gentle sort, which was rather shocking. Every slightly drunken moan that escaped from between his lips — every buck of his hips as he chased his sweet release — was the inevitable result of loneliness.
Now, tonight, as if he was suddenly possessed by not only his logic — he knew he didn’t have much of a choice — but that desperate piece of himself that craved love and connection, he turned around to face you, and he said, “Alright. You win.”
You smiled brightly. God, even a sinister grin looked beautiful upon your angelic face.
“You’re going to be a great father, Connie.”
Connie sat back down on the couch but leaned as far away from you as he could get.
All he could think about was his child.
You ran a hand across your belly, feeling rather grateful that Connie Springer was truly, incredibly stupid.
Little did he know that you were pregnant for far longer than he believed — and certainly not from that foolish night when your despondency had driven you both to fuck in his bedroom.
He could never know the truth.
That the baby in your stomach wasn’t his.
Not if you wanted to marry into that billionaire status associated with the Springer name.
The righteous side of you — buried underneath the torturous experiences of media training, interviews, award shows, parties, and paparazzi — held a little bit of guilt regarding your actions, but Connie had put you through hell, a specific kind of torture that a lifetime of therapy wouldn’t erase.
Trapping you in your room, depriving you of your rights as a human being while forcing you into the spotlight as the physical embodiment of perfection had ruined your mind, body, and soul, and now, you’d drain his overstuffed wallets, snatch every last penny away from him.
In your eyes, it was what he deserved.
Suddenly, your smile faded. You were truly, incredibly stupid as well.
After all, revealing your pregnancy to Levi Ackerman wasn’t just a decision you made to scare off your past old flames, but a decision made out of fear — a subconscious choice that made you wonder if, despite having him on a leash, you were truly still afraid of Connie, and wanted to be taken away from him by any means necessary.
Perhaps, you told him, because a small part of you still wanted freedom.
At least you didn’t tell Levi who the real father was.
No one could ever know.
Especially Connie Springer.
—
Eren Yeager was the crazy ex-husband whom Connie feared the most.
He was the biggest threat, perhaps because he didn’t particularly care about developing critical thinking skills, unlike Levi Ackerman.
Even when they were young teenagers and Connie was on trial for accidentally murdering his own best friend, Marco Bodt, Connie knew that Eren had a couple of screws loose back then.
Only an insane person would sit in an interrogation room with intimidating police officers for hours without saying a word, all to protect their friend from the harsh and unfair justice system.
Along with that, he refused to testify as a witness against Connie despite being threatened with legal charges of his own and had to physically be dragged by his parents into a vehicle and taken to the courthouse.
Only someone like Eren Yeager would publically beat up his bandmate for fingering his wife, and would happily do it over and over again.
He hit a disrespectful fan with his guitar once, too.
Ignored security protocols to hang out with his groupies, despite the risk to his safety. Always drove too fast. Wasn’t afraid of sky-diving, bungee-jumping, or death.
He was the kind of person who smiled in their mugshots.
That was the fool that Connie Springer was waiting on to walk through his door, and that fool was on his way.
Eren was the one leading the rest of the group toward Connie’s house. But, that red, expensive vehicle was zooming down the L.A. streets, engine roaring as he refused to ease off of the gas pedal.
When Eren flew past a stoplight just as it turned red — other drivers honked at him, and understandably so — Reiner slammed on his brakes, watching Eren’s car fly down the road.
Looking at his mirror, he saw Jean’s arm hanging out of the driver’s seat window in the car behind him.
He turned his head to look past Mikasa and through the passenger seat window. Levi was in the car next to him, left waiting at the red light as well.
He couldn’t see Armin, but he figured that the blonde boy was in the vehicle behind Jean.
“Eren’s driving too damn fast,” Reiner said, frowning in annoyance. “He left all of us behind. At this rate, he’s either gonna wreck or get pulled over before any of us make it to Connie’s house.”
“I’ll call him and tell him to slow down,” Mikasa said, reaching forward to press the contacts button on the navigation screen.
However, before her black polished finger could touch the screen, a message suddenly flashed across it.
Reiner’s eyes darted down, and silently, both he and Mikasa read the message that Eren had sent to everyone.
I’m stopping by my house first to switch cars.
“Is that idiot texting and driving?” Reiner’s frown deepened.
A frown appeared across Mikasa’s face as well as she asked, “What does he need to switch cars for anyway?”
With a cigarette dangling from his lips, Eren pulled into his massive 15-car garage. He ran to grab another set of car keys and hopped into a different car.
When Eren left his mansion this time, it wasn’t in his sleek red Ferrari, but in his big, black truck.
—
The sudden, loud crash coming from outside made you hop off of the couch.
Connie could hear the loud, revving engine, and in his gut, he knew exactly what — or, rather, who — it was.
Even so, he pulled out his phone and checked his outdoor security cameras.
He clicked to enlarge the screen, witnessing the crystal clear surveillance footage of the chaos taking place at the entrance gate to his home.
His gate no longer existed.
Eren crashed through it with his heavy-duty truck.
Based on the footage, his vehicle was destroyed, but Eren didn’t care, hoping out of the smoking, damaged vehicle with a bloody nose and a loaded gun, heading for Connie’s front door as the cars belonging to everyone else in the group pulled into the driveway.
“It’s them, isn’t it?” You asked.
“Yeah,” Connie replied casually, as if an angry mob of people with weapons weren’t currently making their way for him.
“So you were right,” you darted your eyes down to your shoes. “If you knew they’d come, why did you send your little minions away? You would’ve stood a chance if you had your Silent Men with you.”
“Because I don’t want your ass, so why would I put up a fight?” Connie shrugged. “I don’t know what those people see in you, but-”
“But what?” A soft chuckle escaped from between your lips. “You’re the one who held me hostage, Connie. And now, you suddenly don’t want me? All because your pull-out game was-”
“Go to hell. Me locking your ass up was a form of punishment, not because I’m attracted to you like those crazy motherfuckers trying to break in here right now.”
“Right,” you said sarcastically. “So why’d you have sex with me in the first place, then?”
Connie didn’t respond. He stared at you with daggers in his eyes. His cold glare was only interrupted when three gunshots were fired, and the front double doors flew open.
When storming Connie Springer’s house, Levi Ackerman expected Connie and his Silent Men to be standing in the living room with their weapons drawn.
But, what he saw was nothing of the sort.
He and everyone else stepped into that enormous, modern room to see you standing there, while Connie sat on the couch, frowning with tired eyes.
“What the hell?” Levi mumbled to himself.
He looked to his right, exchanging a confused look with Armin.
“What’s going on?” Reiner broke the silence first, staring at you as he spoke.
“I could ask you the same thing,” you responded with a vexed glare. “None of you should be here. I already told you to leave me alone.”
“We know, but-”
“There’s no way you meant it.” Eren suddenly interrupted Armin, not intentionally, but he couldn’t help it. “There’s no way you want to stay with someone who treated you like shit.”
“Me and Connie are working through it. Besides, it’s none of your business. I’m not married to any of you anymore, so just move on and forget about me.”
“He really messed with your head, didn’t he?” Eren’s jaw clenched. He turned away from you, looking down at Connie, who had his head in his hand. “Anything you wanna say, Connie?”
“Nope.”
“Are you sure?” Eren adjusted the grip on the gun in his right hand. “Because I can’t think of any reason why you don’t deserve a bullet in your fucking skull.”
You suddenly made your way in front of Eren, and when his eyes darted down to you, his gaze softened.
“Can’t you just back off, Eren? Can’t all of you just back the fuck off? I want to stay here, and I want to be with Connie. If you want me to leave, then you’ll have to drag me away, and at that point, you’re all no better than Connie. You’d all be the ones holding me hostage.”
Everyone was silent.
No one could say for certain if you were being forced to say such a thing, or if you were suffering from Stockholm Syndrome, or, perhaps, whether or not you truly meant what you said.
But, even if they did manage to successfully get you away from Connie, whether the businessman gave you up freely or if they had to put a bullet through his chest, what next? Who would you go home with, and would everyone respect that decision?
Suddenly, an idea popped into your head.
It went against your plan of secrecy and put everything you were working hard to build at risk. You didn’t want this many people to know about your pregnancy until you could secure a lifetime of wealth, but maybe, it would send your old lovers back home and away from you forever. If solely telling Levi couldn’t achieve that, then perhaps, telling all of them would.
“I’m pregnant,” you confessed.
The look of shock written on everyone’s faces broke your heart more than you’d like to admit. You couldn’t stand the sight of heartbreak glistening in their eyes. Even so, you pushed through it.
“Me and Connie are having a baby. I want to stay with him. He’s going to get therapy, and he’s sorry for all the pain he caused all of you. That’s why he’s not fighting back right now, okay? So, please, just-”
“Why’d you tell me?” Levi suddenly interrupted you. “I don’t get it.”
“You told him?” Connie spoke up, raising his head. “Why?”
Everyone’s eyes were on you, seeking the same answer to Levi’s question, and other questions running rampant in their overwhelmed minds.
And, there you were, faced with the aftermath of your incredibly stupid decision.
“I was hoping you’d convince everyone else to leave me alone without also telling everyone my business, but clearly, that didn’t work. I didn’t want to tell everyone because I didn’t want to risk my pregnancy becoming public news before I was ready, but I have no other choice than to tell you all now, so maybe you’d all understand and go away,” you replied, your face expressionless.
“You’re lying,” Armin’s soft voice made everyone look back at him. “She’s lying.”
You might have been an actress, but Armin was your childhood best friend.
“No, I’m not.” You shifted awkwardly as you stood there. A chill ran down your spine as you tried to avoid Armin’s invasive gaze. “Listen, I’m sorry to break your hearts, I really am, but please try to understand.”
But Armin knew.
Of course, he would.
“Tell the truth,” Armin said. He took a step forward. He stared into your eyes.
The truth was complicated because nothing was completely true, but nothing was entirely a lie.
You wanted to stay with Connie and marry into all of his wealth in case your career plummeted. That was true.
You wanted to be rescued and taken away from Connie, who still frightened you, even though you pretended he didn’t. That was also true.
Two things could be true at once.
“You know what’s funny?” Connie’s voice suddenly caught everyone’s attention. “You’re all breaking into my house with guns, threatening to kill me because I’m the bad guy, right? ‘Cause I control your careers, and I took everyone’s girl. But you’re all on the verge of kidnapping her ass right now. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. One of you idiots was stalking her in the first place, right? Calling her phone? Breaking into her house? Taking pictures of her and Levi?”
“Shut up,” Eren grimaced. “We already pieced it together that it was you. It only makes sense for the person who was stalking her to be the person holding her hostage.”
“Don’t deny it,” Jean added on.
Connie stared up at Eren.
When he spoke, no one could ignore the unshaken honesty within his voice, as it was devastatingly clear that he wasn’t lying.
“That wasn’t me. That was one of you.”
The entire group stared at each other, confusion written on their faces, and among the individuals, one of them was rather excellent when it came to acting, as they pretended to be just as shocked as everyone else.
Even you had assumed that your stalker was Connie. Just as Eren said, it made sense.
Connie got off the couch.
“Believe it or not, I don’t want her ass here anymore,” Connie paused. “But we’re gonna have a baby, and apparently, one of you is just as bad as I am, so she’s safer here, as fucked up as that is. So, you guys should figure out who in your weird group is probably keeping female singers in their basement or some shit before you rush into my fucking house again. Now get the hell out.”
Connie wanted you to get the hell out of his life. He didn’t care how, but he was tired of seeing your perfect little face. That was true.
Connie also wanted you to stay, because you were carrying his baby, and when you weren’t pissing him off, you drove away that devastating feeling of loneliness that almost made him put a bullet through his skull and beat Eren to his wish of shooting him in the head. That was also true.
Two things could be true at once.
“Just go,” you avoided eye contact with any of them. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re all dangerous. Just as dangerous as Connie.”
The group couldn’t argue. Deep within themselves, everyone had a gut feeling that not every individual in their group could be trusted.
It was the reason why Reiner left their little meeting in Armin’s living room that day — that overwhelming feeling.
As it turns out, he was right all along.
Along with that, if they had killed Connie and forced you out of his home against your will, could they truly say that they were any better than the man they had taken you from?
But, even if you had decided to leave with the group, then the stalker would have had direct access to you.
Who knows what would happen.
In the end, the group had done the one thing they couldn’t foresee themselves doing: they started to leave.
Not because they had given up — heading out of the door was torture, more painful than any of them could have imagined it would have been — but they left because you insisted upon it, and you weren’t safe anywhere.
But Armin didn’t stay in Los Angeles for nothing.
Levi didn’t lose his job for nothing.
Jean didn’t ruin his own reputation and friendships for nothing.
Eren didn’t break through Connie’s gate for nothing.
Reiner didn’t lose his family home for nothing.
This wasn’t over — they were sure of it.
One way or another, they would come back. They could see it in your eyes, how — despite your words — the former version of yourself that they had all fallen in love with still sought freedom. Still sought love.
But one person was truly finished. They were done fighting.
“Wait, Mikasa.”
The girl paused. Her shoulders stiffened as she froze — the rest of the group had no choice but to move around her on their way out of the broken front doors.
Mikasa couldn't turn around and face you. Hearing you call her name sent a chill up her spine.
“Why’d you come here?” You questioned, stepping in front of her, giving her no choice but to look at you. “How’d you get caught up in all this?”
Mikasa’s dark eyes were glassy with tears that threatened to fall.
“Do you really have to ask?”
You didn’t respond.
Mikasa stared at you for a moment longer, scanned over you with her eyes — trying to look at you one last time — and she walked out of the door as well.
Soon, she’d catch a flight to Bora Bora or Switzerland — any place would work, as long as it wasn’t Los Angeles. She was done with this city. She was done with you; she wasn’t fighting for love to begin with, but for your freedom, and she had lost.
The adventurous woman would no longer continue to chase a person. She’d go back to chasing the thrill of exploring unknown countries and diverse cultures around the world.
Even so, as she walked out of that door, the tears that she didn’t want to let fall ended up streaming down her cheeks anyway.
She didn’t want a romance story with you. Only a fool would dream of having a happy ending with a heartbreaker. But, perhaps, she wanted more good memories with you.
Her heart ached for the old version of you that made everyone laugh while playing cards and drinking beer. She missed who you were before Hollywood destroyed you — before the light in your eyes completely flickered out.
It was her fault, at the end of the day. She was the one who introduced you to Levi, which, in turn, started all of this.
Maybe that was why she wanted to save you from the soul-sucking lifestyle that fame and wealth brought.
She felt silly imagining it, but she often daydreamed about taking you to her favorite countries one day, the two of you creating your own adventure together.
Hiking through sacred forests.
Swimming in the ocean with gentle sea animals.
Taking photos in front of historical locations.
Trying new foods together, prepared by locals who cooked with love.
Admiring landmarks until night time would arrive.
She’d have given you one of her flannels if it had gotten cold, or held your hand for warmth.
Honestly, if you grabbed her wrist as she walked away, and told her that somehow, someway, she was the one you truly loved and wanted to be with, she’d do anything to make it happen.
The idea of raising your baby together even crossed her mind briefly, but she shook away the thought.
As she looked at you one last time, she couldn’t help but wonder why she had hoped for you to end up in her life, even as a friend.
After all, she stood there with her short black hair in a messy low ponytail, wearing an open, faded black denim shirt-jacket — matching her black jeans — and the backpack she always took with her everywhere.
Meanwhile, you were wearing clothing brands she couldn’t even pronounce, even if technically, thanks to Eren’s money, she could afford them as well.
Either way, it wasn’t meant to be. As lovers, or as friends.
She couldn’t save the girl from New York with a beautiful voice, terrible cooking skills, and a loud, heartwarming laugh. But she missed her — she missed you.
“Goodbye,” Mikasa turned to face you one last time, smiling sadly.
You gave her a polite smile, one that indicated that you had no idea she meant forever.
Suddenly, you approached her and wrapped your arms around her.
“Thanks for being such a good friend,” you softly rubbed her back as you hugged her, and she died a little inside.
She carried a faint scent of dove soap and smoke, and her body was as warm as the cozy herbaceous bonfires that she smelled like.
“I’ll see you later,” you said.
Mikasa pulled away. She gave you one last smile.
It was painfully obvious that you concluded that she was only here to try and help out a friend, not free the girl she was painfully in love with.
Mikasa walked away.
Nothing could ease the pain of feeling unloved, but she’d treasure the memory of having known the old you.
It certainly was nice.
But it was time to go now, and for good.
She wasn’t your one true love, but you were hers.
—
— ONE MONTH LATER —
Every day, every night, Connie Springer watched you, the pregnant woman he was struggling to love, walk around his mansion with sugary words and shifting eyes.
It had driven him to drink, downing glass bottles of alcohol that his poor maid had to toss out constantly.
During both his drunken and sober moments, you were there, wrapping your arms around him and whispering sweet, meaningless words into his ear, telling him how much you needed him to protect you and your baby, how wedding preparations were being made so he would never be lonely again, and about all the horrific secrets you could spill. And if he stopped you from telling them, you happily mentioned how someone else would.
Being wealthy tended to grant the fortunate the ability to do almost anything and everything.
That included being able to toss together a luxurious wedding in only a month, whereas a poorer person would have had to wait a year to achieve such organization and class — not that a poorer person would have been able to afford it all to begin with.
The wedding took place in Europe, held in a beautiful historical castle decorated with gorgeous flowers and candle chandeliers.
Your dress alone was more expensive than the average house. The breathtaking ball gown wedding dress graced the camera lens of the respectable paparazzi teams who attended your wedding and would later showcase your memorable event all over every form of mass media.
Connie was lucky.
He was getting the chance to marry you, and unlike your last marriages, you both had something that would keep you bound beyond a ring.
A child.
He had to protect you.
He had to.
He was the only one who could do it.
Even now, as you tried to prepare for your wedding and to give birth in several months, your phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Random photographs taken by your stalker would appear across the internet.
No one could hurt the woman carrying his baby.
You were like a precious gem. Gorgeous — a sight for sore eyes — and desired by those who were greedy and insatiable. There would always be someone who would want to date you. Someone who would want to be you.
But, right now, there was someone who wanted to harm you, Connie’s sweet little thing, and it wasn’t a stranger, but someone who once smiled in your face and kissed you sweetly. Someone you once trusted.
Connie had to protect you from that person — whoever it was — parading around like an old, heartfelt lover of yours when in reality, they called your phone from an unknown number over and over again. They lurked in the shadows, watching you visit your favorite places. They broke into your house. They stood outside of Levi’s home and took photos of your scandalous one-night stand.
He had to protect you, even if it meant killing every single one of your old lovers.
But, as a start, this was the only way he could keep you safe for now.
By standing in front of a crowd of prestige guests, exchanging vows that meant he’d get your love and your silence, and you’d get his money and protection.
“I do,” you said happily, blinking up at your newest husband with teary, yet blank, soulless eyes.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
—
— ONTARIO, CANADA —
Every day, it seemed as if Eldian Devils was one scandal away from falling apart as a band.
Half of it was due to losing Levi as a manager.
Another contributing factor was the fact that the band no longer had a sense of unity. Jean and Eren were at each other’s throats more often than not, videos of their public arguments and — rarely, but notably — fist fights would circulate around the internet at the speed of lightning.
Connie still tried to punish them for it, too.
It was pointless — making his Silent Men beat them up until they coughed up blood and then forcing them to sit in the uncomfortable chair of a makeup artist who could skillfully cover the scars and bruises.
Even when Eren and Jean managed to keep their hands off of each other, they both still would need stitches, bandages, and more makeup, because they weren’t just being punished for not being perfect celebrities.
They were being punished for breaking into Connie’s house, threatening him with weapons, and potentially being one of your stalkers.
After the night they appeared on The Nights With Flint Show and Connie threatened to hurt Eren’s mom, Eren sent his family — along with Jean’s mom — across the country for safety reasons, just like Levi had sent Erwin and Hange.
That left Connie with no choice but to continue to harm the band members directly.
Not all of the punishments were beatings, either.
Some of them were vile, inhumane, and undoubtedly a result of Connie’s unjustified and brutal time in adult prison when he was just a teenage boy.
What he had put them through was cruel enough to make both Jean and Eren not believe in a god anymore. And, if there was a god that truly existed, then he would owe them an apology for allowing their suffering to continue.
Eventually, the owner of CS Records just shoved the band on a tour bus at the very last minute and sold their gifted minds and ruined bodies to the screaming fangirls and rock-loving fanboys in the form of high-priced tickets to concerts and meet-and-greets.
Unlike their forced tours in the past, Eren truly didn’t mind it this time around, mainly because it kept him distracted.
Those fans of his could easily tell when something was wrong, though.
But that didn’t mean they cared.
Most of them only focused on the sweat dripping off of his beautiful skin, the visible veins in his arms that were flexed as he played his guitar, or the way his shoulder-length brown hair would fall out of that low manbun during his shows. However, some of them noticed how he and Jean were always on opposite sides of the stage.
Or how he could never look out into the crowd whenever they performed the songs they were forced to write about you.
No one ever said anything. A few concerned fans would post about it on social media — how the Handsome Man seemed to have drastically changed, but no one truly cared about what was going on in his chaotic life.
No one questioned where the bruises decorating his skin had come from, nor the sad look in his emerald eyes.
No one noticed the physical and mental torture that the beautiful Eren Yeager had gone through, nor the hidden messages within his song lyrics that were a cry for help.
Perhaps, a conspiracy theorist online would take apart his songs if his own record label decided to kill him someday, or if he threw himself off of a bridge like he had thought about doing more often than he’d willingly admit.
Then everyone would cry and whine about not noticing the signs sooner. The big, bright, unavoidable signs.
As long as he wrote decent Billboard charting songs, as long as the world wanted to sleep with him, then nothing else mattered.
Before performing yet another soulless show, Eren sat on the couch in his dark, spacious backstage dressing room with a cold, wet towel on his forehead.
He was wearing all-black, grungy clothes, complete with a bit of black eyeliner that made his fans go crazy.
His head was aching terribly.
His right ear wouldn’t stop ringing from a devastating encounter he had earlier with a group of obnoxious fangirls.
They were waiting outside of his hotel room all day and all night, and when he stepped out of that hotel lobby to sneak into his awaiting vehicle and head to tonight’s arena, the screams erupted. But that was nothing compared to the mob of people rushing toward him.
The fact that his “security team” was made up of Connie’s Silent Men — people who were hired to hurt him — certainly didn’t help either.
As long as they didn’t kill him, no one cared about who put their hands on Eren.
With a small sigh, Eren leaned forward and grabbed the nearly empty bottle of Aspirin sitting on the coffee table in front of him. He dumped a few of the tiny circular pills into his hand — not bothering to count how many — and tossed them into his mouth.
Suddenly, three gentle knocks occurred at the door of his dressing room, which Eren found odd, as most people just walked in.
“Come in,” he called out softly.
The door opened, and Jean entered.
The last time Eren had seen him, they were arguing over a pointless chord progression in a pointless song.
“The hell do you want?” Eren said, but not with an angry tone, but rather, an exhausted one.
Jean shut the door behind him with one hand. With the other, he held a big burrito wrapped in foil.
“I brought you some food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Eren,” Jean sighed, rolling his eyes a bit — at least, as best as he could with an enormous bruise around it. “I know you haven’t eaten anything, man. I know it’s hard, but can you at least try?”
Eren didn’t move. Nor did he say a word.
“If you don’t eat, then your ass will just end up passing out right on stage, and then Connie will-”
“Give it here,” Eren interrupted.
Jean passed his bandmate the burrito, and he sat down in a chair next to the couch.
“I put everything you like in it. Rice, beef, lettuce-”
“Did you put guacamole?”
“Hell no,” Jean grinned gently as Eren unwrapped his food. “I know you can’t stand it.”
“Okay. Good. I was just testing you.”
Eren took a small bite of the stuffed burrito. He was pleasantly surprised that not only did Jean remember what he did and didn’t like, but also to ask for extra sour cream.
A small grin almost graced Eren’s face as he thought about how, despite everything, Jean still remembered those little details, but then again, Connie remembered little things about Eren too, such as how he liked to drink coffee.
“Don’t be surprised if I’m not around once the show’s over,” Jean suddenly said.
His tone was humorous as he spoke, but Eren noticed the unshakable fear and worry visible within the man’s eyes — even if his right pupil was blown.
“What do you mean?” Eren recovered his burrito — three bites was more than enough right now.
“You know I can’t do the show with you tonight. They can cover my black eye with makeup, but they can’t do shit about my blown pupil. If people see it, they might start asking questions. So, since the band is one member short, they’re gonna issue free merchandise or discounts or something, especially for the people who paid for a meet-and-greet. I basically fucked up the entire night for everyone, and I just . . . wouldn’t be surprised if I get killed over this.”
“It’s not your fault,” Eren frowned. “Why would Connie’s men kill you for an injury they gave you? And how do they expect you to get better if they won’t let you fucking rest? If you’re not performing, you should be in your hotel room sleeping.”
“Yeah, well . . .”
Jean didn’t need to finish his sentence. It was silly to expect CS Records to let Jean recover from an injury they caused.
For a moment, the two bandmates sat in silence, internally debating whether or not Connie would actually take their lives someday.
Then, Jean spoke.
“You think she knows what he’s doing to us?” He asked hesitantly. It was a question that was bothering him, but also a question he truly didn’t want an answer to.
“I don’t see why she wouldn’t,” Eren spoke rather casually, easily able to hide the pain he felt whenever you appeared in his cluttered mind. “She knows how he’s always treated us. Only difference now is she’s not getting mistreated either. Guess she lied when she said he was gonna get therapy. That, or his therapist is doing a shit job.”
“But Eren,” Jean’s voice was haunting as he spoke, filled with terror that Eren understood all too well. “He’s never treated us this badly before. Some of the shit he’s done goes beyond any . . . any beating or publicity stunt. You know that. There’s no way she’d let him do all of this to us.”
Eren leaned back on the couch, placing the towel back over his head as he folded his arms across his chest. “You wanna tell her? You think that’ll make a difference?”
“No, I guess not. Considering someone has been stalking her and we don’t know who, I bet she wouldn’t lift a finger to help any of us.” Jean paused. “That reminds me. Is everyone else doing alright? Or are they suffering like we are?”
“It’s mainly just us, far as I know,” Eren shrugged. “Connie can only do so much considering they don’t work for CS Records. Mikasa’s left the country, but she’s safe. Reiner moved his country-ass family somewhere Connie can’t find them, and he’s hired his own bodyguards. Uh . . . I think Connie’s kinda scared of Levi, because that man’s actually crazy as hell when you think about it, and Armin just has nothing to lose. He doesn’t have any family or meaningful career for Connie to target, and I guess if Connie wanted to kill him, he would’ve done it by now. Guess he just doesn’t see him as a threat.”
Jean chuckled in disbelief.
“What shit have we gotten ourselves into?”
“I don’t know, but I hope it’ll be over soon,” Eren said.
Looking down at his watch, Jean got out of the chair. He started to leave the room.
“I hope so too,” Jean mumbled as he walked out of the door. “I’ll see you later. Have a nice show.”
—
— LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA —
Most nights, Armin Arlert walked home alone after his exhausting work shifts as a waiter. It was a short distance away, and the gas was rather high.
His feet ached terribly. The corners of his mouth were often sore from flashing customer-service-friendly grins all day long in hopes of receiving a decent tip.
Unlike the wealthy celebrities he had gotten to know lately, the blonde-haired boy lived in one of the more dangerous neighborhoods in Los Angeles.
No one had bothered him yet, truth be told. He was wise enough to walk down the street with his head hung low, maintain personal space, and not stare at anyone for too long.
Eren and Levi were more worried for his safety than he was.
It didn’t matter where Eldian Devils were performing that night — in Japan, Australia, France, or anywhere — Eren would always check in on his new best friend, making sure that he had gotten home safely.
Sometimes he’d call. Other times, he’d send a quick text message.
But he’d always reach out.
Armin often chalked it up to another attempt at trying to ease the guilt of ruining his relationship with you, just as he did whenever Eren tried to give him money or a house.
Either way, it was nice to have a friend.
As Armin’s apartment came into view, his phone dinged, undoubtedly a text message from Eren.
The former New Yorker wasn’t stupid enough to pull out his phone and check it now — as anyone could decide to shove a gun in his face for it, even if it was a cheap little piece of technology.
Armin made his way into his cold, tiny apartment, locking the doors behind him. When he turned around, he saw that his favorite blanket was draped messily along the couch, and his opened copy of The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton had tumbled to the ground.
He was running late for work this morning, as he had gotten caught up in his novel, and because he spent the night worrying about Eren.
His friend looked absolutely miserable in every photo that had popped up online during his tour. It made him wonder what CS Records was doing to him and Jean, and why no one bothered to ask any questions.
With a small sigh, Armin pulled his phone out of his back pocket, and when the contact name that had appeared on his screen wasn’t Eren’s, a lump of worry started to form in his throat.
That was, at least, until he noticed that it was you who had texted him.
It must have been some sort of trap. It must have been a trick. What could you possibly want after pushing everyone away? Did it have something to do with that look of regret in your eyes when everyone walked out of the door that day?
Armin read the text message.
Meet me at the motel.
He frowned. He knew exactly what motel you had meant. After all, he knew you. But he didn’t appreciate your lack of greeting or any other information that could have made all of this less frightening.
Only a fool would trust Connie Springer’s wife, right?
Armin leaned against his front door, and he texted back.
Why?
He glanced away from his phone, assuming that he wouldn’t receive a response immediately, but as soon as his eyes darted away from the screen, his phone dinged again.
Because I need to talk to you.
Just as he was getting ready to respond, you sent him another message.
I made a big mistake.
— SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER —
When one lived in a rather enormous house, walking around it constantly was often exhausting, especially when trying to locate something lost.
While trying to find you, Connie had gotten in an entire workout session without needing to go into his two-story home gym.
He sighed in frustration as he paused in the hallway.
You were someone who followed a daily schedule, whether intentionally or unintentionally, he couldn’t tell, but around this late afternoon hour, you were typically in the pool, or enjoying the recreational activities within the pool house.
Connie had walked through the pool house twice. You weren’t there, nor were you in the pool itself.
Were you hiding from him?
He did notice that you often disappeared whenever the alcohol bottles were handed to him as if it wasn’t you who had driven him to drink this much.
But, right now, he was sober and simply wanted to check in on the pregnant wife he both loved and despised.
As Connie leaned against the wall, he raised his fist to his lips, his cold, black ring touching his skin. After taking a moment to think, he hadn’t seen you at all today. Not at breakfast, even though French toast, eggs, and fruit were prepared.
Not when workers were moving furniture into the new nursery — Connie thought that it was too early to decorate, but you were rather excited.
So, with that knowledge, Connie made his way to your bedroom.
Just as he approached your door, one of his staff members stepped out of your room.
It was Lacy, a young woman with brown hair who was hired to look after you and make sure both you and your baby were in great health.
“Something wrong?” Connie asked.
The woman pulled down her face mask with her gloved hand. Her green eyes were shiny with worry — but one could only guess if it was related to your health, or because she was talking the Connie Springer.
“She, um . . . she has the flu.” The woman awkwardly adjusted her bag of medical supplies across her shoulder, her fingers fidgeting with the straps. “I’d like to keep a close eye on her if that’s alright. Pregnant women are at higher risk for other serious illnesses if they catch the flu.”
“Fine. Pick a guest room.”
Connie started to open the door, but the doctor suddenly said, “Wait, don’t go in there yet.”
She pulled a face mask out of her brown leather bag and handed it to him.
“You should wear a mask along with everyone else in this house. I’d also recommend temporarily reducing your staff. I’d like to check everyone’s temperature, because someone here gave it to her, more than likely.”
“Do what you gotta do.” Connie put on the face mask and stepped into your bedroom.
It was truly a wonder — how you knew Connie had entered your bedroom without looking over your thick cream-colored comforter.
It wasn’t his cologne, which was never overpowering, nor was it the sound of his footsteps, but perhaps, the shiver that ran up your spine once the door opened — a shiver that wasn’t caused by the flu.
The small space on the side of your bed, next to your bent legs, dipped as Connie sat there.
“I knew something was wrong,” Connie looked down at you. “But I didn’t know if you were just avoiding me. I guess you’re always doing that though, right? Considering we don’t even share the same fucking bedroom. You can’t stand the sight of me, can you?”
Connie reached out, placing a hand against your sweaty cheek.
“Go away,” you mumbled weakly.
“I guess I should let you rest,” Connie ran his thumb across your quivering lips. “The doctor said pregnant women and the flu are a bad combination. She didn’t give me that much detail, but I’m guessing our baby could die. You could die. Who knows.”
“And I’m guessing you’d like that.”
Connie didn’t respond immediately.
He was conflicted, those two opposing parts of him sending mixed signals to his mind.
The lonely part of him that loved you, that wanted to protect you from your stalker and other threats in your unholy world, well, it made him want to rent out an entire hospital for you and get on his hands and knees and pray for your recovery.
The part of him that hated you, that wanted you six feet under, was hoping your flu would progress into something more serious. Then, you’d get out of his life for good without him having to get his hands dirty.
“I think I’d be happy either way,” he said emotionlessly.
Connie pulled down his face mask. He leaned over, and pressed a soft kiss against your lips, one that could have him lying in his own bed with your illness as well.
But he didn’t care.
Connie pulled away, mumbling against your lips, “Get some rest. Or don’t. I don’t give a damn.”
As Connie started to leave the bedroom, he looked back at you as he stepped through the doorway, and he said, “Just remember that if our baby doesn’t survive, I don’t have any use for you anymore.”
Connie shut the door.
You were left with nothing but his words running through your clouded mind, and you could only guess what that meant.
Divorce, or murder.
Having all the money in the world wasn’t worth the fear.
There was an element of danger that you didn’t consider when trying to force yourself into that abundance of wealth associated with the Springer name, and it was the fact that, assuming you and your baby pulled through your pregnancy, Connie would certainly end your life if he found out he wasn’t the father.
With your history of relationships, he would be an utter fool not to ask for a DNA test.
Or, what if the baby came out as a spitting image of his father?
What if . . .
What if . . .
What if . . .
Your new husband was too dangerous, even though your manipulative plan worked. It only made him someone to be feared even more, which was something you didn’t foresee.
The money wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t worth your life.
With a trembling arm, you grabbed your phone off of your nightstand and opened your contacts. It didn’t take long to find the one person you wanted to reach, whose first and last name both started with an “A,” and was, perhaps, the perfect person to go to for comfort.
Maybe it was stupid.
Maybe Armin was your stalker, just like you suspected a while ago.
He fit the mold of one — you broke his heart. He knew your old address without you telling him. He refused to leave Los Angeles and go back to New York.
But the same could be said about any of your old lovers, truthfully. They were all heartbroken. They all refused to leave you alone at one point. They all knew where you used to live.
Either way, with Connie’s threatening words looming over your head, you rested your trembling hand against your stomach, and you pressed Armin’s contact.
—
Armin arrived at the devastatingly familiar motel. Cheap and rather old-fashioned, but a bittersweet feeling ran through his veins as he stared up at the building. It was the same motel you both stayed at a long time ago, the day he first brought you to Los Angeles.
At the time, it was better than sleeping in the car.
After confirming that he was standing outside of the right room by glancing down at your recent text message repeatedly, he knocked softly at the door.
A wave of relief washed over him when that raggedy wooden door slowly opened — and it was just you.
As soon as he sighed and stepped into the tiny, yellowish, dated room that hadn’t seen a spec of cosmetic work in decades, his big blue eyes scanned over you, and the corners of his mouth fell into a frown. His eyes then darted to the backpack in the corner of the room.
“Are you okay? You don’t look well.”
“I’m not,” you said through your face mask.
You sat down on the edge of the squeaky bed, and Armin took the spot next to you.
“I have the flu,” you admitted.
“Oh.” Glancing down at his feet, Armin said, “Is that why you texted me?”
“No.” You turned your head and looked at Armin with red, exhausted eyes. “I just . . . I don’t know. I made a huge mistake. I shouldn’t have married Connie.”
“You just wanted to have a family with the father of your child. I understand that.”
“He’s not the father,” You gave Armin a knowing look. “You of all people should know that.”
“Then why’d you-”
“Money,” you interrupted, knowing exactly what he was going to ask: Why did you marry him?
“Connie has the kind of wealth that most celebrities will never achieve, especially ones who get pregnant and are mainly known for their scandals more than anything else. So, I just tried to trick him into thinking that this was his baby, and manipulated him into marrying me. I know that makes me a horrible person, but after what he put me through, I guess I just wanted some revenge.”
“What changed?” Armin asked softly — and, god, you missed that voice of his. “What made you regret your decision?”
A look of fear flashed across your face.
“He’s a dangerous man, and what I’ve done — what all of us have done, actually — has only made him worse. There’s no point in having any money if I’m too dead to spend it.” You paused. “It’s like he’s losing his mind, you know? One second, he wants me gone, and the next . . . he’s willing to hunt all of you down just to protect me-”
You erupted into a fit of dry coughs. Armin worriedly placed a hand on your back.
“You should lay down,” Armin said.
“I’m fine,” you sniffled. “Anyway, I’m telling you all of this because . . . I’m leaving Los Angeles.”
Armin’s ocean eyes widened a bit.
“Really? Where are you going?”
“Wherever you’ll take me.”
“You-” Armin abruptly cut his sentence short, as he was in a state of shock. “Me? Why me?”
You started coughing once again. Armin started to rub your back with his hand. His worried frown deepened.
“I know I’m not mother or wife material,” you said once your coughing fit ended, “ but I want my baby, and I can’t raise a kid in Hollywood. That place is evil. Look what it did to me. I’d rather go back to New York, work in that bakery, and split sandwiches with you.”
“No.”
You were starting to shiver. Armin wrapped his arms around you.
“Being a celebrity in Hollywood or being a baker in New York aren’t your only options. We can go wherever you want, and with all the connections you have now, I bet you could become a very successful writer without the fuss of also being super famous. That was your dream, wasn’t it? Where would you like to go?”
You thought about one of the moments in your bittersweet life in which you were truly happy.
It was when you visited Tennessee with Reiner’s family. You missed that man, as he truly treated you well, but as you thought about the pain your existence had caused his loving family, who had their family home burned down by Silent Men and were forced to relocate across the country, you had to let your love for Reiner Braun go.
But, you didn’t have to let go of the memories.
In the South, having a plate stuffed with warm food was normal. Most people were so polite — so welcoming. Loving.
“Maybe . . . the South. I think I like the South. I’m not sure what state, but I just wanna get out of here.”
“Okay,” a soft grin graced Armin’s face. “We’ll leave tomorrow. Get some rest.”
Armin pulled the covers of the bed back, and he helped you lay down as he recovered your shivering body.
“Goodnight,” he mumbled.
Your childhood friend started to walk away, getting ready to make an uncomfortable sleeping spot for himself on the floor when suddenly, you called his name.
“Armin?” You said weakly.
“Hm?”
“I’m sorry for breaking your heart.”
“It’s okay,” he smiled softly once again. “And I’m sorry for bringing you to Los Angeles. I’ll make up for it by being the one who helps you leave.”
“Okay,” a weak, but wholesome smile graced your face. “Well, I’ll make up for what I did by loving you properly this time.”
Armin smiled happily, blushing a bit as he looked down at the ground.
At that moment, Armin had hoped the flu shot he had received would protect him, as he couldn’t help but lean down, and kiss your cheek softly.
Afterward, with the excitement over the chance to start anew yet again both running through your veins, you both drifted off to sleep.
—
The sky was a beautiful canvas of purple, orange, and blue as the sun hadn’t yet risen entirely. It was an early morning hour when Armin’s eyes shot open.
He was awakened by the sound of painful groaning.
Startled, he pushed himself off of the ground, and fumbled around in the dark room, hoping his fingers would run across a light switch.
Once the worn-out light flickered on, the first thing he saw was blood.
It coated the beige sheets that you had yanked off of your body.
It covered your trembling hands and thighs.
What frightened him even more than the blood was your appearance. Sweat coated the parts of your skin that weren’t covered in blood. Your chest fell and rose unevenly as if it were painful to breathe. Groans of pain fell from between your lips, which only stopped whenever a coughing fit had occurred.
Your stomach was cramping horrifically. Armin could tell based on the way you were curled up in a circle, your hands against your stomach.
When he rushed over and touched your shoulder, you suddenly vomited off the side of the bed.
Your skin was burning up underneath his fingertips, and your own fingertips — as well as your lips — had started to turn to a bluish shade.
Armin didn’t waste any time trying to get you to speak and tell him what was wrong.
He scooped you up and took you to the emergency room.
—
Armin sat in the spacious, light brown waiting room of the hospital with your blood on his clothes. And that blood had told him what had happened before the doctor did.
You lost your baby.
Armin could hear your cries from the waiting room.
The doctor told Armin the news with a pained look in his eyes, assuming that he was the father as he went on and on about the flu, infections such as pneumonia, and admitting you into the hospital as a patient so you could be treated right away.
Armin couldn’t begin to process the knowledge that he could lose you too, not when the big, crowded waiting room had started to slowly become infiltrated with invasive fans and paparazzi, all of whom wanted to locate your whereabouts, or at the very least, bombard Armin with questions.
Hours later, police officers had to rush to the hospital and control the crowd, holding back groups of emotional men and women standing in the nauseatingly bright, white hallways.
Your name — and what was happening to you — became headlining news rather instantly.
Night time had arrived. There wasn’t any news.
Armin was still sitting in an uncomfortable chair in the now blocked-off waiting room, all by himself, worry consuming him as he could hear the loud shouts and irritating voices of police officers going back and forth with the fans and paparazzi a few feet away.
That was when Connie stepped into the waiting room with two of his Silent Men.
Armin’s heart fell into the pit of his stomach. For a while, the two of them simply stared at each other. Connie’s face was unreadable.
“Is she dead?” Connie casually asked.
“No,” Armin replied nervously. “She’s not dead, but the baby . . . uh, your baby . . . didn’t make it. Y/N’s sick with an inf-”
“What are you doing here?” Connie suddenly interrupted, yawning. “You brought her to the hospital? Were you with her? Or are you her damn stalker, and found out she was here?”
Armin didn’t know how to respond to such a drastic accusation, but the truth was no better. Both potential answers were too dangerous to give.
“We weren’t together,” Armin lied. “I guess she forgot to change her emergency contact because the hospital called me for some reason, and I don’t have your number, so I just showed up.”
Connie stared at Armin coldly. The waiter couldn’t tell if the entrepreneur bought his story or not.
“Well, I’m here now, so get the hell out of here.” Connie paused. “If I ever see you come around her again, I’ll kill you, okay?”
—
Two weeks had passed.
Despite being in the hospital, Connie hadn’t stepped into your room at all.
The nurses had told you that your husband was in the waiting room — having a deadly, contagious infection was the reason why, according to the kind nurses who tried to comfort you about not being able to see him, but you knew the truth.
He didn’t give a damn about you.
And you were allowed to have visitors three days ago when your doctor no longer deemed you as contagious.
He was only here to scare off anyone else who might have given a damn about you, not to see you himself.
By now, the medication that the doctors had pumped you with had started to work. The news of both your illness and your miscarriage resulted in an overwhelming amount of support and love from your fans and disrespectful theories about who the father could have been from your haters.
Not everyone bought the story that it belonged to CS Records owner, Connie Springer.
Laying in your hospital bed with fuzzy blue socks on your feet and an IV in your arm, reruns of Family Feud continuously played on your television. You chuckled softly at one of Steve Harvey’s dirty jokes.
Someone suddenly knocked on your door.
It wasn’t the quick, friendly knock that doctors and nurses often did, but rather, the knock of someone trying to be discreet.
“Come in,” you said, grabbing the remote and muting the television.
Eren walked through the door.
“Eren?” Your eyes widened at the sight of him. “What are you doing here? How’d you get in here?”
“Had to sneak by some people and pay others,” he said, shutting the door behind him.
“What about your tour?”
Eren walked over and sat on the side of your bed.
“I found a jet as soon as I heard you were in the hospital. Those bastards tried to keep the news from me — took my phone away and everything. But I don’t care about that fucking tour,” Eren smiled sadly. “I know what you said about wanting all of us to go away, but I had to see if you were okay.”
You smiled at the Handsome Man, but as you really looked at him, and ran your eyes across his entire body, your grin slowly faded. “Are you okay?”
He was more pale than usual. Thinner than he was when you had last seen him. And, of course, there were bruises and scratches across the pieces of skin that weren’t covered with black clothes or a couple of tattoos.
“Are you?” He deflected.
Your frown only deepened. Your baby was gone. You were filled with fear over what that could have meant for you. Every night, you cried yourself to sleep about it. By now, you were practically out of tears.
“I was . . . gonna run away from Connie, but then I got sick,” you admitted. “I made a huge mistake by pushing all of you away. I tried to tell myself that I didn’t love any of you, but really, I love all of you. You, Armin, Reiner, Levi . . . even Jean, in a way.”
“You love me?” Eren smiled sweetly, warmth spreading across his cheeks. Then, suddenly, his smile faded.
“Do you know what he’s been up to?” Eren looked down at the floor. His jaw clenched. “You know what he’s been doing to me and Jean?”
“No,” you furrowed your brows in confusion. “What are you-”
Suddenly, your nurse knocked on your door and opened it.
“Sorry to interrupt, but you arrived pretty late, Mister Yeager. Visiting hours are over, I’m sorry. Please come back tomorrow.”
Eren nodded and turned his attention back to you. For a brief moment, the light in his eyes that had vanished long ago returned, and he stared at you softly and lovingly.
“I’ll see you later, okay?”
Eren placed his hand on your cheek, running his thumb across it. He leaned in and kissed your lips as gently as he could.
Eren left both your room and the hospital. As he did so, stepping through those automatic exit doors, Connie was watching him.
—
Getting discharged from the hospital a few days later was like losing your freedom.
You were rather shocked when Connie picked you up from the hospital that night, considering how he insisted upon you being worthless to him if there wasn’t a baby.
But, either way, he helped you into the car, holding onto the plastic bag filled with your belongings such as your toiletries, clothes, and your cell phone.
He shut your door and walked to the driver’s side.
Tomorrow night, you planned on trying it all over again: messaging Armin and running away with him.
But, tonight, you’d go home with your despicable husband.
Connie was quiet as he drove down the L.A. streets.
“Is everything okay?” You asked worriedly, looking at the side of his unreadable face.
He didn’t respond.
He only clenched the steering wheel, and thought about two things: your old lovers, and the little fact that the doctor had shared with him — you were at least eight weeks pregnant at the time of your miscarriage.
That rough estimate of how far along you were revealed to your dear husband that he was not the father.
Connie suddenly made a few unfamiliar turns, and eventually, you realized that he was not taking you home.
—
“How have you never had one before? Slushies are the best shit ever. You’ve been missing out.”
Eren sipped on his cold red beverage as he walked down the street with Armin.
They had spent the entire day together, hanging around Eren’s mansion and enjoying each other’s company.
“On rare occasions in which I could afford something sweet growing up, I always grabbed a pecan roll. So I guess I never bothered to try anything else.” Armin grinned as he mixed around his thick blue treat with his straw.
“A pecan roll?” Eren grimaced playfully. “You act like a seventy-year-old man sometimes. You probably like Raisin Bran too, don’t you?”
“It’s not bad,” Armin smiled, but then, his grin faded away slowly.
“What’s wrong?” Eren asked.
“Nothing, I’m alright-”
“No, you’re not. I know that face. ”
“Well,” Armin looked down at his feet as he walked slowly. “I was just wondering if the only reason the two of us are friends now is because you’re still trying to make up for what you did. I mean, do you honestly enjoy hanging out with me?”
“Yeah. Is that so hard to believe?” Eren frowned a bit as he spoke. “I wanted your forgiveness, but I didn’t befriend you for that reason. Would be kinda stupid to do that considering we’re still both chasing after the same woman. We’re friends because we’re friends.”
“Okay, I believe you,” Armin’s smile returned once again.
Armin couldn’t say for certain whether or not you would both try to leave Los Angeles once again, but he had hoped that his friendship with Eren would last no matter how far apart they were.
After all, the two of them had recently purchased plane tickets to the Bahamas — Eren’s decision after he had learned the other boy had never truly been on a real vacation.
As Armin thought about what the vacation might be like, an engine roared in the distance as a car sped down the street in their direction, the headlights bright and distracting.
Eren stopped walking and turned around.
Armin — who hadn’t turned around yet, noticed Eren’s face change from a comforting smile to a look of horrific dread.
Eren recognized that car.
There wasn’t enough time to react. By the time Armin had turned around to see what made his friend so visibly upset, Connie Springer had opened his car door.
He pulled out his gun and shot Armin in the chest.
As the hot lead poured through his body, he fell over, dropping his slushie. Eren caught him as best as he could, lowering him to the ground gently.
Blood gushed from his mouth — rendering him speechless — but his big, sad, and panicked eyes stared into Eren’s, and told him that he wasn’t ready to go. He didn’t want to die.
“What the hell?” Eren shouted.
His hands were soaked in blood.
Instantly, he was a teenage boy again, trying to scoop up bloodied pieces of Marco’s internal organs — pieces of his body that weren’t stuck to the road or the tire belonging to the car that hit him — and put him back together.
Marco was already dead. He had transitioned from that life and into the next before Eren even made it down the hill that day.
But Armin was still alive.
He could be saved.
He could be . . .
Armin suddenly coughed up blood. It spewed from his mouth, painting his lips and chin red, and he started to gag on it.
Eren wanted to tell his friend every single word that ran through his mind:
“Hold on just a little longer, I’ll call for help.”
“Don’t die. We still have to go on that trip together.”
“Don’t die, please don’t die. Just stay with me.”
But Eren couldn’t say a word, as his throat had dried to a crisp. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see two people moving frantically. He could hear your voice. Your cries.
You were trying to snatch Connie’s gun away from him.
Eren pulled out his phone with a trembling, bloody hand. He opened the dial screen.
One day, Armin’s hands wouldn’t be scratched up from working excessive heavy labor jobs.
They wouldn’t be covered in his own blood either.
They would be wrapped around a glass of piña colada as he relaxed on a beautiful beach in The Bahamas.
Eren promised.
Armin was too young to die, and he couldn’t die like this, bleeding out on the cold and dirty concrete from a painful gunshot wound.
No.
Eren refused to watch someone else die in front of him.
As Eren’s thumb pressed the nine on the keypad, a bullet blasted through his phone, through his index and middle finger, and lastly, through his chest.
You opened your car door.
You couldn’t say for certain whether or not you walked toward them, or if you ran, but you fell to your knees beside the two bleeding bodies.
Hot tears clouded your vision. Anger and sadness fogged your mind. With trembling hands, you tried to cover both the wound in Armin’s chest and the wound in Eren’s, but you couldn’t stop the bleeding.
You couldn’t stop their suffering.
You couldn’t even tell if they were both still alive.
You had only managed to soak your hands and clothes in their blood — your tears splattering onto their warm skin.
Eren Yeager didn’t deserve to die either.
He deserved peace — to be free from the suffocating spotlight for even just a day, and to smile without it being photographed for the obnoxious mass media.
All he had ever known was pain and performances.
Connie stepped away from his car and approached you with his gun aimed at your head.
“I didn’t plan on shooting you too,” Connie mumbled lowly. “But watching you cry and run over to these two bastards has pissed me off. And trying to wrestle me for a gun — are you fucking crazy?”
Even if you wanted to beg for your life, you couldn’t. Speaking was a skill you had lost as soon as he fired that second bullet.
Connie looked into your sad, teary eyes with his dark, emotionless ones.
“Stay the hell out of my life, you hear me? I don’t want you as a wife. I don’t want you as an artist. If I see your face again, I’ll put a bullet through it.”
And, with that, he lowered his gun. He got back into his car and sped away.
Maybe it was idiotic to leave a witness alive. He’d blame the part of himself that loved you a little, the human part that still existed, that instantly regretted firing a bullet through his childhood friend. That couldn’t stand the look of horror in your eyes.
But logically, it truly didn’t matter. Whether or not you were dead or alive, everything would come back to him either way.
He, at the very least, could count on Levi Ackerman to make sure of it.
Your loud, uncontrollable sobs erupted once Connie was truly gone.
You patted your own body with your blood-soaked hands, attempting to find your phone.
It was in Connie’s car.
You shifted over a bit in Eren’s direction, who was lying on his stomach.
You had to roll him over with your shaky arms and grab his phone from underneath his bleeding body. Your sobs made your ears ring.
His phone was destroyed by the bullet, half of the black device was missing while what remained was shattered and cracked all the way through.
There was no one else around who could help you, nothing surrounding you except complete and utter darkness.
Your knees scraped against the sidewalk as you shifted your body once again, facing Armin, and desperately, thoroughly, you searched his limp body for his phone.
When your fingers wrapped around the device in the pocket of his pants, you dialed 911 with shaky hands and spoke to the operator with a shrieking, croaking voice.
—
It took about eight minutes for an ambulance and a team of police officers to arrive. During that time, you couldn’t do anything except watch the two of them bleed out.
Watch them both die.
That next hour seemed as if someone else was living it, as if you weren’t inside of your own body. Blue and red lights were constantly flashing. Teams of paramedics gently tossed their bodies on stretchers and loaded them into the back of their ambulances.
They were rushed to the hospital, while you were taken to the police station.
Your clothes and skin were soaked in blood, including your hospital bracelet.
That was all that mattered — that was all that you could feel — their blood on your body.
The police questioned you inside of a grey, lifeless room for what felt like an eternity.
And you told them the truth.
You told them that they were shot by Connie Springer.
You couldn’t say for certain what would happen next — to you, or him, or Eren, or Armin. All you could think about was the blood on your body.
There was no greater suffering than not knowing what was happening with those two, and not being able to sit by their side.
Not knowing what would happen.
When you were allowed to leave, you were greeted outside of the police station by flashing lights from an uncountable amount of cameras, and you were bombarded with horrific questions as microphones were shoved in your face.
All you could do was stand there and think about the blood on your body.
Suddenly, a man pushed through the crowd of soulless individuals.
It was Levi.
When you made eye contact with him, a tear rolled down your cheek.
“Come on, let’s go,” he said softly. Microphones were only inches away from his face, attempting to pick up the conversation between you both.
As he placed an arm around you and led you to his car, more cameras flashed.
The car ride with Levi was a silent one, and you were thankful for that. He cast a few concerned glances your way, but you could only stare out of the window and think about the blood.
His car pulled into that driveway of his modern mansion with a sophisticated black exterior, and he helped you inside, as your legs were insanely wobbly from recovering from your illness, and the recent trauma.
Despite the chilly, sterile, and sleek atmosphere of Levi’s home, stepping into it again felt like a small piece of your soul had been returned.
You felt safe.
Truth be told, Levi had planned on selling his home while he was staying with Hange, but as he saw the heartbreaking look of relief wash over your face once you stepped through his front doors, he was glad he didn’t.
“You should get cleaned up,” he said, shutting the front door behind you.
“I don’t think . . ." You couldn’t finish your sentence. Not with the way a sob was always everpresent, and the lump in your throat wouldn’t go away.
“I can help you. It’s okay.” Levi responded because he knew exactly what you were trying to say: that you didn’t have the energy or the nerves to do it yourself.
To wash off their blood.
Levi ran a warm bath to help break up the blood that had dried against your skin. He’d help you shower afterward as well, but for now, this was easier.
He collected your soaked, red-stained clothes and threw them away.
Once he helped you into his jetted bathtub, he poured some body wash onto a new, spare loofah and started to scrub your arm.
You both sat in silence, the only noise that could be heard was the sound of the soap suds spreading across your skin.
As he ran the loofah across your thighs, the water started to turn red.
He drained it and refilled the tub with more warm water.
Tears rolled down your cheeks again. He didn’t say a word. He knew you didn’t want him to.
“It was yours,” you suddenly said, your voice cracking as you spoke. “The baby. It was yours. That was why I told you.”
“I know.”
You turned your head, frowning as the tears continued to fall.
“You knew?” You sniffled. “Then why’d you disappear? Why didn’t you say or . . . or do anything?”
“Because you wanted to be rich, and I wanted you to be happy,” Levi replied softly. “I’m sorry for disappearing. I won’t do it ever again. I promise.”
Suddenly, Levi’s phone started to ring. He would have ignored it — taking care of you was more important — but in his gut, he knew that he needed to answer.
He got up and walked toward the sink, and grabbed his phone.
He looked at the caller ID.
“It’s the hospital,” he announced, tapping his phone to answer the call.
“Hello?” he said.
As he spoke, your heart sank.
Levi’s face shifted into a look of complete and utter despair.
He made eye contact with you, and those eyes of his — filled with sorrow — made you want to lay down in the tub, and drown yourself to stop the pain that started to overwhelm your body.
At first, Levi was told decent news, that one of your lovers had pulled through surgery, but he wasn’t out of the woods just yet, as he was in a coma.
The same could not be said for the other person.
Your other beloved had succumbed to his injuries on the operating table.
There was nothing they could do to save his life.
You knew exactly who it was without hearing the rest of Levi’s phone call, and you couldn’t breathe, choking on your own sobs.
If Eren Yeager had died, the hospital would have called his mother, not Levi Ackerman.
But . . . Armin Arlert’s emergency contact was Levi Ackerman.
He didn’t have anyone else.
When Levi hung up the phone, he reached across the bathtub, and wrapped his arms around you, trying his hardest to console the inconsolable.
But there was nothing anyone could do.
That kind-hearted, hard-working boy had passed away.
♡ — 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠!
🎟: @consuming-karma @lilvampirina @okaystopwhore @chrollohearttags @nanamochii @bunny2612 @cupids-soul @crazychaoticizzy @ramonathinks @averysmolbear @seishirogf @6sakusa @levin4nami @chaotic-on-main @sad-darksoul @gwapbby @katestrophes @ventdavi154 @lovelyless-fiction @svftackerman @musegonemad @moonmalice @inciteterr0r @honeybleed @zeninsbitch @purple-milk24 @itzgabz22 @mooomuu @micafecitoconpan @beaniebanby @anonymousme23 @theitchbbbb @skit-brentfaiyaz @princessos-blog @elliesbabygirl @the-mrs-steve-harrington @kittenbabe00 @magictrump @hetalia-tumbler @hon3y-c0mb @bol0-de-morang0 @thisisketchy @yoongirecs @allofffmypeaches @sasha-glass @getwaves @deluluvibes @p3nislawd @emery-333
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Napoleonville [Chapter 8: The New House]
Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.
Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, smoking, infidelity, kids, parenthood, historical topics like violence and discrimination, Cakes with Christabel, angst?? Who am I kidding. Angst!!!!!!
Word Count: 5.9k.
Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.
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“I have no idea what he’s thinking,” Christabel tells Alicent, a low furtive murmur around nibbles of a cinnamon French toast cupcake. They are both sitting at the kitchen counter as you scuttle around wiping down burners and handles and knobs, trying not to listen in, unable to help yourself. At the table, Amir is frosting a Lady Baltimore cake and chatting with Criston, who has eaten no less than three miniature cherry pies in the past fifteen minutes. Amir keeps casting you wide-eyed, flummoxed glances. He means: Can you believe these people? No, you can’t.
Alicent sips the glass of sweet tea you poured for her and gazes vaguely around the room. “Oh, you know how Aemond is, dear. He works so hard. He’s so consumed by the Lake Verret project.”
“But shouldn’t he talk to me?” Christabel’s large blue eyes are luminous, persistent.
“Don’t be ridiculous, darling. Of course he talks to you.”
“Sure,” Christabel says, frowning. “He talks to me about the weather and the garden and the koi in the fish pond. He asks if I listen to Dire Straights or AC/DC. Nothing of consequence, nothing revealing. And he never touches me. Alright, fine, there’s a hand on my shoulder or my waist once in a while, for a moment. There are quick, courteous kisses. But that’s all. And he’s so…so…” She struggles to decide on a word. “Formal!”
“Have you tried the cannoli cupcake yet?” Alicent asks, sliding the plate towards Christabel. “It’s just divine. I absolutely adore it.”
“When we’re apart he says he misses me, but he hardly ever calls. He tells me that he loves me, but only if I say it first.”
“He’s marrying you!” Alicent declares as she restlessly twists her assortment of glittering rings, gold and diamonds and emeralds. “What more is there to say, dear?”
“Surely there must be something,” Christabel mumbles. She obediently samples the cannoli cupcake, carving away a tiny sliver with her fork. “Oh, that is wonderful, isn’t it?”
“I think it’s my favorite one yet.”
They have twelve flavors to choose from, some familiar and some new: vanilla bean and triple chocolate of course, the classics, and then also cannoli, cinnamon French toast, carrot, red velvet, Boston cream pie, apple cobbler, peanut butter and grape jelly, Neapolitan, Louisiana crunch, and hummingbird. Christabel surveys the selection and then looks to where you are vigorously scrubbing an already clean stovetop. “Aemond mentioned something about banana bread cupcakes. Do you have one of those we could try?”
And again, you are amazed by how much he remembers: the very first cupcake from the very first night. “Um…I’m not sure, actually. Amir, didn’t we make a batch earlier this week? Are there any still on the table?”
Amir checks the cake plates, lifting glass covers, until he locates a single remaining banana bread cupcake for your customers. He ferries it to the kitchen counter with great ceremony. “Everyone raves about this flavor! And it’s so quintessentially southern. Perfect for a Louisiana wedding.” You give him a miserable, deadened stare and he offers a millisecond smirk of commiseration. What else can we do? Amir means. And you think: Nothing.
Christabel samples the cupcake, an infinitesimal morsel speared on the very tip of her fork. You recall how Aemond tasted like sugar and honey and cinnamon when he kissed you on the night you met, rough, dominating, irresistible, without the aching weight of disappointments or betrayals. If time was a cobweb you could rip and walk through, you’d be back in that May dusk in an instant, you’d live there forever and never leave.
“That’s it.” Christabel grins as she licks cream cheese frosting from her full, pink lips. “This one. I want a banana bread cake.”
“Mmm,” Alicent agrees, taking a bite. “It has so many dimensions! Sweet with just a touch of salt, light and fluffy but with a certain substantial, rustic quality, don’t you think? It’s the cinnamon, perhaps.”
You make a note on your yellow legal pad—a reminder you don’t need—so you can avoid Christabel’s benign, guileless gaze. “Is there a design you’d like for the frosting?”
“Wildflowers.”
Amir emits a startled gasp before he can swallow it back down. You look up at Christabel. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
“Just like the vanilla bean cake you made for the engagement party.” She draws blossoms in the air with her fingers, whimsical like a fairytale. “There was white icing and then all these gorgeous flowers in a dozen different colors. You could do that for a wedding cake, couldn’t you?”
“Of course.” And then you amend: “Well, Amir can. He’s our Picasso.”
“You’ll need something for the rehearsal dinner too, dear,” Alicent tells Christabel. Then she turns to you, tugging anxiously at one of her auburn ringlets. “You’re the expert, love. What would you recommend to impress upon our guests all the history and mystique of the Deep South?”
Your mind is blank, your thoughts gnarled up with visions of Christabel meeting Aemond at the end of an aisle. Amir sees this and he saves you.
“A Napoleon cake,” he announces with his best salesman enthusiasm, powerful enough to sweep everyone else along with him.
Alicent claps her hands, elated. “Oh, just like the town!”
“It has layers of puff pastry and rich custard cream, very French, very elegant and sophisticated, but also a nod to Napoleonville. And we can add a cherry jam to make it more romantic, if you like.”
“Doesn’t that just sound heavenly, darling?”
“Does Aemond like cherries?” Christabel asks Alicent. You know he does, but you don’t say anything.
“I think so. We’ll ask him tonight to be sure.” Alicent is opening her clutch purse to get the cash to pay you; she is eager to have this errand finished, you believe. “And can you put wildflowers on top of the Napoleon cake as well?”
“You can have the Declaration of Independence written on it if that is your heart’s desire,” Amir says, then steals a glimpse of you. You’re jotting the order down and then tracing over your own letters again and again.
“That’s the color scheme,” Christabel says a bit dreamily, forever woolgathering. “Wildflowers. And I think you suggested it at the engagement party,” she tells you, appreciative. In your recollection, it was less of a suggestion than a confession of what you once dared to hope for. “Everything has to have wildflowers. Even the dress.”
Alicent groans. “Oh, Christabel, not this again.”
“I don’t know why you’re being so resistant, those dresses were spectacular.”
“Whoever heard of a multicolored wedding dress?” Alicent asks you, Amir, Criston. “It’s absurd. The bride always wears pure white, everyone knows that. It’s tradition! It’s dignified!”
“Well now I get to solicit opinions too.” Christabel reaches into her own purse—a quilted shoulder bag, light blue with red roses and a label reading Souleiado stitched inside—and produces several polaroid photographs. She gives them to you; they are all of her posing in different wedding dresses, stylish white gowns freckled with wildflowers like splashes of paint. “All anyone can talk about is what I should wear, what the guests will expect, what they will chatter about when they gossip afterwards,” Christabel tells you. And in her vast, shimmering eyes you can detect no resentment or slyness, only quiet desperation. “But you’re a real person. So be honest with me, because there’s only one thing I really care about. Will my husband think I look ravishing in any of them?”
“These theatrics,” Alicent sighs to herself, lighting a Marlboro cigarette. Again, she is peering aimlessly around the kitchen. Amir fidgets with the dogwood flower in his hair as he watches you wearily. Criston compulsively eats another miniature cherry pie.
You study the polaroid photos. Each one feels like a split lip, a fractured rib, the shredding elephantine pressure of a contraction. You wait to speak until you’re sure your voice won’t break. “They’re all stunning. But this one…” You place one picture on top of the pile. “This dress was made for you. Just look at your face. Glowing like a lightning bug.”
“Thank you,” Christabel says, beaming, immensely grateful, and she takes the photos back. She seems pacified. “You’re married, aren’t you?”
“I was, yes. Briefly. Not very happily, I must admit. But it was worth it to get my daughter.”
She smiles. There’s no uneasiness; she doesn’t shy away from displays of human frailty. “I’d like a few daughters one day. We could all dress up together and style each other’s hair.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. If I tried that, I’d get my hands chewed off.”
Christabel laughs. She wears a casual blue t-shirt, blue gingham capri trousers, and white flat pumps. Her eyeshadow is a sparkling gold, her mascara flaking onto the apples of her cheeks. She is still marveling at you with those aquamarine eyes when Alicent pulls a list out of her clutch and grudgingly crosses off items with a black ballpoint pen.
“So we’ve got a wedding cake, a rehearsal dinner cake, a dress, a venue, flowers, photographers…I still need to call about hair and makeup…and we need to pick out candles…”
“Where are you getting married?” you ask Christabel.
“The most unique, picturesque, atmospheric place in the entire state of Louisiana, I’m sure of it.”
“We took a drive to visit that church you mentioned,” Alicent says to you. “And it was absolutely perfect. None of our guest will have ever seen anything like it. And it’s so historic! Over 150 years old! The Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens.”
Amir squeals, a distressed mewing that he stifles with a feigned cough into his elbow. You stand shellshocked for a few seconds before managing a generic encouragement: “Really! Wow! Amazing! Great!”
Now Christabel is rather melancholy again. She scrutinizes her engagement ring, a large teardrop emerald with a gold band. Her voice is low, like she’s talking to herself. “I just wish…I don’t know. That we had more time together before the wedding, I suppose. Then I think I’d feel like I had more of a handle on things. It’s all been such a whirlwind, such a shock. A good shock, but still. We hardly know each other.”
Alicent prompts her: “You care for Aemond, don’t you, dear?”
“I’m in awe of him,” Christabel replies, a little dazed, a little defenseless. “He’s so clever and gallant. He’s the most inspiring man I’ve ever known. And the scar…it gives him quite a roguish look, doesn’t it? Like a Bond villain. It’s not a detriment in the least.”
“Yes, yes,” Alicent says impatiently, like she’s waiting for the conversation to be over. “Then there’s nothing more to worry about. You care for him, he cares for you, and you’ll have the honeymoon to get better acquainted. Criston, would you go outside and start the Lexus, please?” He dutifully departs.
Honeymoon. Your stomach lurches, the sea in a storm. You can see Aemond’s hands on Christabel’s face, in her hair, skating up her bare thighs. You can hear him moaning her name.
“We’re going to Greece,” Christabel informs you, thinking she’s being polite. “Athens, Mykonos, Santorini, and Corfu. Have you ever been?”
I’ve never been anywhere. But instead you say, forcing a smile: “Not yet.”
When Christabel, Alicent, and Criston have gone, you look to Amir. Your blood has turned to cement: cold, heavy, immobile, trapped. “You realize she’s getting my wedding, right? The one I always wanted. The wildflowers. The candles. The chapel.”
“And she’ll even be taking your favorite dick home at the end of the night.”
You cover your face with both hands and shake your head, trying to clear it, to drive out mirages of someone else’s oasis. This can’t be real. I can’t handle it, I can’t survive it.
Amir pushes his tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of his nose and says, gently now: “If we’re catering dessert, we’ll have to go to the wedding. The rehearsal dinner too.”
“Why would they want that? How can they not see how insanely awkward and wrong this is?”
He shrugs. “They probably think it’s normal. Wasn’t Camilla at Charles and Diana’s wedding?”
“If one more person tries to talk to me about Camilla Parker Bowles, I’m going to feed myself to the gator.”
“You’ll have to come to terms with it or you’ll have to end it. Those are the only options.”
“Yeah.” And it’s not just about me. It’s Cadi’s life too.
Amir sits down at the kitchen table, crosses one leg over the other, kicks his foot nervously. He rests an elbow on the tabletop and his chin on the knuckles of his left hand. “I hate to give you more bad news.”
You already know what he’s going to say. You’ve been dreading it for months. “You have enough money saved for San Franscisco.”
“I do.”
You exhale, your shoulders collapsing, tapping your fingertips against the counter. The air conditioner whirrs; the cicadas shriek in the trees outside. The house is hushed and still. Cadi is away at horse camp. Each day you receive a postcard in the mail that you assume the employees forced her to write at gunpoint. “When are you leaving?”
“The end of July. I’ll wait until after the wedding, once all the dust has settled. But I can’t wait any longer than that.”
“I want you to be happy,” you say. “I really do. But I’m going to miss you so much. You’ve been my best friend for a decade. You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a partner in life.”
Amir smiles faintly. “Come over here.”
When you sit beside him, he takes your hands in his; and you remember how he visited you in the hospital after Cadi was born, carrying a bouquet of wildflowers he picked himself and a Tupperware container full of crawfish pistolettes. He had been just a casual friend before you found out you were pregnant, one of a group, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t keep him at an arm’s length. Amir was different, and not in a way that you fully understood or accepted yet. But he was the only friend who had no judgment for you when you told him you were pregnant, who cared about how you felt, who wanted to be a part of whatever would happen next. He was the only one who stayed.
“I’ve never had a boyfriend,” Amir tells you. “I’ve never even been on a date, not once. I’ve never been in love. I’ve never had sex that wasn’t a one night stand in a New Orleans club or the back seat of my Ford Escort because those were the only places we had to go. And I’m starting to believe that people like me can’t have more than that. So I have to go someplace where I can have more, where I will have more. I don’t want love to be something that only other people get to experience. I don’t want to be afraid of leaving my house after dark or wake up every day wondering if someone has broken a window out of my car again. I have to go. There’s no future for me here. If I stay in Napoleonville, this place will kill me, one way or the other.”
Okay, you think. I can let him go. After everything he’s done for me, this is how I can be the friend that he deserves in return. “You should leave, Amir,” you say, tears stinging in your eyes. “I hear you, I understand you. I just wish I could go with you.”
“No, don’t cry, don’t cry! This isn’t the end. I’ll fly back to visit, you know that. Grandma’s still here, you and Cadi are here. And you can visit me too. Maybe you’ll even settle down on the West Coast someday. Eight more years and you’re free.”
You try to imagine your life then: Cadi headed off to college—and she will go to college, you’ve already decided that—and your tether to Willis weakened, closer to 40 years old than 30, Aemond and Christabel nearing their anniversary. How many children will they have by then? Three? Four? And the Lake Verret project will be well-established and no longer in need of so much of Aemond’s attention, and the house they call The Last Desire will sit empty on the lakeshore, warm draughts breathing through it like blood in veins. “I wouldn’t know how to exist anywhere else.”
“You’d learn,” Amir says confidently. “Now, have you ever made a Napoleon cake before?”
“I don’t think so. Not that I can remember.” You consider this. “My mom might have a recipe lying around somewhere. I’ll call and ask her.”
“Yes, do that,” Amir agrees. “If she doesn’t, I’ll try to dig one up at the library. We’ll want to have a few practice runs before the rehearsal dinner. Gotta impress the Rockefellers and their soulless millionaire ilk. Unless you were planning to have a homicidal meltdown and make the custard out of antifreeze or something.”
You chuckle. “No. Probably not.”
“It would be difficult to blame you.” And he turns on the little pink Panasonic radio: Alone by Heart.
~~~~~~~~~~
In a spacious corner booth of the Olive Garden in Gonzales, Aemond is talking about Lake Verret as you pick at your Tour of Italy and Frank Sinatra pipes through the speakers. You could swear they have the same three songs playing on a loop: Fly Me To The Moon, My Way, Luck Be A Lady, back to outer space again.
“But by total coincidence, Daeron has been researching desalination techniques for his latest article. Apparently there are ways to try to mitigate the damage and reduce the brackishness of the water, so we’re going to be—”
Abruptly, you ask: “Where does Christabel think you are right now?”
Aemond’s forehead crinkles, his fork hovers above his plate of herb-grilled salmon. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and his Marlboro jacket, jeans, Adidas sneakers. “Why do you care?”
“She’s getting the wedding I always wanted, did you even notice? She’s getting married at the Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens in Belle River. She’s getting wildflowers and flickering candles.” And she’s getting you too.
“Okay,” Aemond says slowly. “I’m not involved in any of that.”
“I think you are, actually, because you’re kind of the groom.”
“But I don’t do the wedding planning,” he insists. “I have no idea what Christabel has arranged. My job is to be there on the day in a suit and that’s just about the extent of the real estate it takes up in my brain.”
“She’s never mentioned any of that to you? Not once? You’d swear on your life?”
He sets down his fork with a clang and stares fixedly at you. Your waitress glances over from several tables away where she is refilling a couple’s sweet tea glasses. “What do you want me to say? I’m sorry you had good ideas and other people liked them. It fucking sucks that you didn’t get the wedding you wanted when you were seventeen. But that wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know you yet, and you didn’t know me. You can’t blame me for what Willis or anyone else did.”
“But it’s not fair,” you choke out, sounding weak and juvenile, and you hate it but you can’t stop. “I understand that you’re marrying her, I get that, but she can’t have everything.”
“Look…” Aemond laces his hands together on top of the table, and his voice softens. “Even if Christabel didn’t exist, even if you were from my world, even if you were a duchess or a socialite or the daughter of the president of the United States of America, I still couldn’t marry you.”
You scoff; it’s despicable. “Because of Cadi?”
“No,” Aemond says, like that’s preposterous, like he’d never consider her to be a liability. “Because I have to have heirs.”
“Fuck you,” you hiss with vitriol that stuns him. Now the waitress is gawking. “You’re going to manipulate Christabel into walking down that aisle and then immediately get her pregnant?”
“Why are you mad at me?! I’m listening to you, I’m respecting you! You don’t want to have any more children of your own, fine, completely reasonable, I would never ask you to have a baby and go through all of that again for the sake of the Targaryen dynasty, but somebody has to!”
“You really don’t understand why I would empathize with a teenage girl trying to raise a child when she’s lonely and exhausted and confused about why the man she married isn’t turning out to be who she expected?”
Aemond shakes his head like it’s not a valid comparison. “She wants this.”
“She doesn’t know what it is. She doesn’t understand what she’s signing up for.”
“Everyone from a family like mine goes through this,” Aemond says. “My grandparents did, my mum and dad did, Aegon did, even bloody Charles and Diana did, and now it’s my turn. There are growing pains, but people adjust and it all works out eventually. Christabel will learn to manage her expectations, and once the children are born she can find happiness wherever and with whoever she wants to.”
“But you’ll be with her,” you forced out, voice fracturing, and at first Aemond doesn’t grasp what you mean. “You’ll…you’ll sleep with her. You’ll touch her, you’ll kiss her, you’ll do everything with her.”
“Surely you, as someone who called up a stranger from a personal ad in the Bayou Journal, comprehends that sex can be a solely physical act under the right circumstances.”
“So what, you’ll fuck me and then go home to her? Or you’ll fuck her and come home to me? And I’m supposed to live like that?”
“Yes,” he says, like it’s simple, like it’s easy.
You gaze morosely out of the restaurant window. In the distance is a Dollar General, a Burger King, the Kmart where you had to buy your own engagement ring.
“Do you want me to tell Christabel to change the wedding?”
“No.”
“Because if I tell her to pick a new venue, new flowers, new cakes, whatever, she’ll do it.”
“No. She likes her wedding. I can’t take that away from her. She thinks I’m her friend.”
“Cupcake,” Aemond says, tenderly now. You turn back to him. “I don’t want to fight with you. I’m going to be gone for a while, four or five days. I have to fly to Norway and inspect some of the offshore rigs we have up there.”
“In the North Sea?” you ask, alarmed. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
“I mean, it’s oil drilling. It’s one of the most deadly professions in the world. But that’s how we built our fortune, our legacy. I’ve survived before, I’m sure I will again. If you need anything while I’m gone, you can call the house. Criston knows that you’re to be taken care of.”
“No one else can go to Norway instead of you?”
“I have to go.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s my responsibility.”
“Because Viserys told you to?”
“They amount to the same thing.”
“I don’t think you should listen to him.”
“I have to go,” Aemond says again. He takes out his wallet and lays $30 on the table. “But there’s something I need to show you first.”
As Aemond’s red Audi Quattro barrels down Route 70 southbound towards Napoleonville, you say very little to each other. Once you were strangers, and the words flowed easily and your bodies intertwined with effortless need, and now you have known each other for nearly two months and shared days and nights and confessions and yet every ghost filled up the space between you until it was a splinter, a gap, a gulf, a chasm. You miss the person he was when he showed up on your sloping, creaking porch steps back in May. You miss the person you were before you found out about Christabel.
A Men At Work song comes on the car radio, and it takes you a moment to figure out which one. It’s Down Under, a bewildering hit from 1981. “I never understood this song,” you say, staring through the open window as a jungle of southern live oaks, dogwoods, and cypresses rolls by. Rivulets of opaque, slow-moving bayou water snake through the wild green. Pelicans flap their wings in the pink-golden dusk sky. “What’s a head full of zombie? What’s a Vegemite sandwich?”
Aemond laughs, a smoldering Marlboro Red nestled in his left hand. You wonder if once he’s married he’ll wear a gold band on his ring finger, if he’ll take it off when he cheats with you. “Cupcake, it’s obviously about Australia.”
“What?”
“Down Under? As in, literally below the rest of us in the Southern Hemisphere? Head full of zombie means they’ve been smoking weed. Vegemite is a kind of yeast spread they put on sandwiches. I’ve had it, it’s disgusting. The whole song is in Australian slang. Everyone knows it’s about Australia.”
I didn’t. You look out your window again. Aemond takes note and swiftly backpedals.
“But I mean, I can see how an American wouldn’t know that. No big deal, okay? To anyone in the Commonwealth, Australia is like our fuckup sibling. It’s our Aegon. But you guys probably don’t really learn about Australia in school. So…yeah. It’s probably not as obvious as I assumed.”
“Maybe I missed that lesson,” you say. Maybe I missed that year.
In a brand new neighborhood just outside the town center of Napoleonville, Aemond parks in the paved driveway of a ranch house on a three or four acre lot. The yard is bordered by a white masonry fence with chicken wire around the base to keep snakes and gators out. There are a few dogwood and bay laurel trees, and one monstrous southern live oak that’s probably two hundred years old. Aemond cuts the Audi Quattro’s engine and steps out into the twilight.
“Aemond? What are we doing here?”
“Follow me.”
“Why?”
He walks around to your side of the car, opens the door, and leans down to grab your face with his right hand, his fingers hooked around the curve of your jaw. Instantly, there is a bolt down your spine: hunger, warmth, weakness, momentum that is thoughtless like falling from a great height. “Follow me,” he repeats, grinning mischievously. “Right now.”
Aemond has a key that unlocks the front door. Inside is rose pink carpeting and mauve walls, a sunken conversation pit, popcorn ceilings, mini blinds on the windows, closet doors covered with mirrors. You can see your face reflected in them, puzzled.
“This is the living room, clearly,” Aemond says as he continues briskly through the house. As an afterthought, he kicks off his Adidas sneakers so he doesn’t track any dirt inside. You do the same, sliding off your cheap flats from Kmart. He points down a hallway. “There are two guest bedrooms down there, and then a big one at the other end of the house with its own private bath. Here’s the kitchen…” He leads you through it, mint green with pristine black and white tiles on the floor. “And over there is the dining room.” It’s a kind, golden yellow like dawn or sunset.
“Aemond, what—?”
“Bedroom next,” he interrupts, hurrying you along.
At the end of the hall, he opens a door to reveal a sprawling chamber. It is blue like his bedroom in the Targaryen mansion, but not a deep, vivid sapphire color; it is a pale blue like prairie flax or a clear midday sky. The carpet is lush and soft. There are mirrors on the ceiling.
“Those are optional,” Aemond clarifies, pointing upwards. “But personally, I like them.”
“Aemond, whose house is this?”
“It’s yours,” he says.
“It’s what?!”
“Well, technically, it isn’t yours quite yet,” he admits. “I bought it in cash, it will close in a week or two. At that point I’ll sell it to you for $1—the same price as one of your cupcakes, incidentally—and then it will officially be your house. And it doesn’t even have a sinking foundation or any alligators. Imagine the possibilities.”
“But…but…”
“Cadi’s bedroom is green, like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I’ve been told the yard is big enough for one horse, or two very small horses. Ponies, I guess.”
“You cannot buy me a house,” you say, aghast.
“I think I already did.” He holds out the key to you, resting in his palm among lines of prophesy.
You are paralyzed; it takes you forever to find your words. “Aemond, I’ll never be able to repay you.”
“You don’t owe me anything. It’s a gift, not a trade,” he says, the key still lying in his outstretched hand. “Every cent I spend on you, every second I spend with you, is solely because I want to do it and for no other reason. There’s no obligation. There’s no quid pro quo. And that’s what I feel like you don’t understand. I have no logical reason to keep you in my life, absolutely none, aside from the fact that I want you to be here. And I want that with everything I’m made of. I never stop wanting it. So let me help you. Take the key. Take the house.”
His right eye is on you, imploring, commanding. At last, you lift the key from his palm. Studying it like the cryptic letter of a foreign language, you murmur: “You shouldn’t have done this.”
Aemond rakes his fingers through your hair, tilts your face up towards his, skims his lips feather-lightly from your cheekbone down to your lips—though he doesn’t kiss you, only ghosts his flesh over yours, a taste, a taunt—and then up to the curl of your ear. His whispered voice is colored with wicked scarlet desire. “You don’t tell me what to do. I tell you what to do.”
If he yanked off your t-shirt you would let him. If he unzipped your denim shorts and slipped his artful fingers inside them he would find panties soaked through for him. You would let him do anything he wanted to you, here in this glass-fragile liminality before he becomes Christabel’s in law, in body, in inked and inerasable history. But it would not be because you want to, not because you feel ready in your bones, not because you trust him again. It would only be because you could not bring yourself to resist.
Aemond reads this on your face; he stops before you have to tell him to.
~~~~~~~~~~
On July 1st, Cascade Stables is swarming with parents as they descend upon the property to collect their children and meet the horses they’ve spent the past week with. There is a stereo somewhere blaring Your Love by The Outfield; apparently, this does not disturb the horses. You find Cadi beside the stall of a very tall, willowy beast, ears upright and alert, one bulging eye onyx and the other a striking icy blue. Its coat is white with a splattering of rust-colored stains. Even its mane and tail are comprised of alternating strands, dark, light, earth, clouds, cocoa powder, granulated sugar.
“His name is Patches,” Cadi tells you proudly as she pets the leviathan’s velvety muzzle. “He has a wall eye. And he’s a real handful and usually they only allow the experienced campers to ride him, but they let me try and he listened so well I got to keep him all week!”
“Wow, that’s incredible! Good job! Did you learn a lot about how to take care of him?”
“Yeah. They taught me how to feed Patches and clean his hooves and put a saddle on him. And how to hit him with a hairbrush when he tries to bite me.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. “Right. Okay.”
“Can we buy him? He’s for sale. Probably because of all the biting.”
“Who, Patches?” You definitely cannot afford to board a horse; and then you remember the new house. “I’ll think about it.”
Cadi peeks around you. “Daddy isn’t here too?”
“No, honey, I’m sorry. He had to work. But he really wanted to see the horses and he is looking forward to hearing all about your adventures.” This is a lie—Willis seems only dimly aware of the concept of a horse camp, and he is staunchly incurious by nature—but a compassionate one.
Cadi accepts the explanation readily enough. “Alright. Is Aemond your boyfriend yet?”
“Um.” You thread the horse’s forelock through your fingers to buy yourself time. It seems unwise to try to deceive her again; Cadi will learn about Christabel sooner or later. “No, we’re still just friends.” You pause. She watches you, knowing there’s more. “Actually, he’s getting married this month.”
“What?!” Cadi is shocked, but she’s outraged too. “To who?!”
“To a nice lady named Christabel. And I’m sure they’ll be very happy together.” Another lie. And you think for the first time: If I settle for being Aemond’s mistress, if I let it tear me to pieces…what am I teaching Cadi?
Your daughter doesn’t say anything for a long time. She pets Patches’ speckled face, her own expression tense and thoughtful, lines and worries that should be far beyond her age. At last she says quietly: “Is it because of me?”
You are mystified. “What, honey?”
“Is the reason why you and Aemond can’t get married because of me?”
There is a flash of crimson wrath in your skull—protective, animalistic, wronged on her behalf—but no one to direct it at. “No. No, absolutely not. Why would you say that?”
Cadi shrugs, and you recognize it as her self-preservation, faux-flippant shrug. “I don’t know. One time I heard Michelle’s mom talking about how no decent man wants to deal with some other guy’s kids. And that’s me when I’m at your house. Another guy’s kid.”
Oh, fuck you, Janet. “No,” you say again. “Aemond likes you a lot, Cadi. He cares about you.” He picked out a house that could accommodate a horse for you. “You’re the opposite of a problem. He actually likes me more because of you, I think.”
“Okay.” And she’s relieved, although she’s trying not to show it. “Then why is he marrying someone else?”
“Well…it’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
Where the hell do I start? “Aemond and I are very different people,” you tell Cadi. “And we want different things out of life. We like to spend time together, but that doesn’t mean that we’d be able to share our whole lives…homes, careers, values, everything. His family has a lot of expectations of him that I don’t feel right supporting, but Aemond wants to respect their rules. And, you know. He’s a robber baron.”
“But he doesn’t talk about Jade Dragon Energy or oil around me. He talks about history.”
You sigh, watching dust motes swirl through the hot, sunlit stable air, listening to horses nicker and huff. “I know, honey.”
“I don’t even think he wants to be a robber baron. I think he wants to be something else.”
“Like what?” you ask, picking stray bits of yellow straw out of her short, disheveled hair. And remarkably, Cadi tolerates this.
“I don’t know, just…just…” She battles with the words, then finds one she likes. “Free, I guess. Just free.”
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MEAT PIES (Thomas x Reader)
as a result of the poll i made, here is a lil something with Thomas Hewitt! also, this is sort of in celebration of 500 followers so thank you so much for that!! :D
Thomas Hewitt x gn!Reader (they/them)
Summary: You nodded and slipped out of the kitchen, hearing Luda May call the directions to you. Down the hall, first door on the left. Easy. The door in question was underneath a large staircase that led upstairs from the entry foyer. As you reached to open it, your hand froze on the doorknob. The sound of a revving chainsaw and screaming could be heard just beyond the door.
WARNING: 18+, violence, murder, c/nnibalism
Living in Travis County was becoming more and more difficult, particularly in Fuller. There were whispers around town that the meat processing plant had gone bad. The latest drought had caused illness in the cattle but the plant did nothing about it, continuing work as expected.
Those whispers had reached your ears almost immediately. Fuller was a relatively small town as is and the sick meat would be bad for your business.
Currently, you ran a little corner store making and selling various baked goods, though your little meat pies were especially good. Despite the town's size, you had various customers come in almost every day. When you'd first moved to town about two years ago, many of the older residents had turned up their noses when you'd continued to work on Sundays, not being particularly religious yourself.
Their attitudes quickly changed once they got a taste of your baking though.
You made various things as well, from cakes to breads to cookies. There was little you couldn't make. In summer, you'd whip up vanilla ice creams with apple cobblers and in winter you'd make warm honey and vanilla cakes. The town couldn't get enough of it.
Today was a warm day, as were most days in Texas. You'd just finished cleaning up one of the tables when you heard someone come inside. "Be right with you!" You called over your shoulder as you finished wiping down the table with a disinfectant wet wipe.
When you spun around, you smiled at a familiar face. "Hey Mrs Hewitt, how can I help ya?"
Luda May Hewitt was a regular of yours, always paying you generously to bring home some of your cakes and plates of cookies. She bought more than any other customer but you certainly weren't complaining. Sometimes she'd bring you some of her own family recipes for you to try, always looking proud when they came out a success.
You were always respectful to her, which you could tell she also appreciated. "Just here for the usual, dear." Luda May smiled at you.
With a quick nod, you slipped back behind the counter and began collecting chocolate clip cookies into a paper bag. "Did somethin' a lil different with 'em this week." You gave the old woman a secret smile. "Added a bit more salt to this batch, so let me know what ya think!"
"Ooo!" Luda May smiled. "I'm sure they'll be delicious as always. My Tommy's such a big fan of your bakin' you know."
You looked up at her, giving her a raised eyebrow. "Tommy?"
She nodded. "He works at the meat plant. Walks by your lil store every day on his way to work but he's too shy to come in, poor dear."
"I hope I don't scare him," you laughed good-naturedly as you sealed up the bag before collecting a dozen cupcakes into a paper tray. "He's welcome to come in if he wants! Can make him a hot chocolate if he shows up before openin.'"
Luda May gave you a fond look. "You're such a darlin,' don't know what angel sent ya to Fuller but I know the whole town's grateful." She paused, fidgeting with her fingers. "You heard 'bout the plant, right?" Her voice was barely a whisper when she spoke.
You nodded at her, leaning closer over the counter like the two of you were sharing a dark secret over the little cakes and cookies. "Yeah, heard the meat was bad."
"Not just bad, dear." Luda May frowned. "Been stomach infections all over the country 'cause of the spoiled meat. A health inspectors comin' out this week to see."
A soft gasp left your lips and Luda May nodded sadly. "I mean... is the plant-?"
Luda May gave a wistful smile. "You've heard the rumors. I'm sure you've seen the families movin' out of Fuller this past month. Everyone's already cut their losses an' moved on."
You frowned, crossing your arms over your cool counter as the old woman opened her purse to pull out coins and bills to pay you. "What're you gonna do?" You asked her, chewing on your lip.
She looked at you with a soft look. "Don't you go worryin' about an old woman like me. I ain't last this long on pillows and cotton." She teased you, making you smile slightly. "I got my boys to look after me. We got a farm out in the country, we'll get by. I still got my job at the community center, for now."
As she slid the money across the counter and took the two bags of sweets, you gave her a polite wave. "Let me know if I can help somehow, yeah?"
Luda May just gave you a smile as she left, leaving you alone in the empty store as the bell of the door echoed emptily. You just hoped her family would be okay.
The Hewitts were a fairly reserved family but were the heart of the little community. Luda May and Charlie had a strong presence in the town and, despite the sheriff's best attempts, the town looked to the Hewitt family for advice. So you'd heard of Thomas Hewitt - Luda May's son who, according to rumors, was mentally challenged and physically disabled. You'd never met him but you'd heard stories.
You finally got to meet him just a few days after Luda May's visit.
It was early in the morning and you'd barely gotten dressed when you padded downstairs in socked feet to your little shop. You lived above the store in a small, one room apartment. It was convenient though!
A knock on the glass door confused your still-sleepy brain. You crept towards the door, unlocked it, and opened it. An enormous man stood there, staring at you with surprise. His hair was long, messy and matted, and he wore a mask over his mouth that obscured a lot of his face. You opened and closed your mouth for a minute before managing to choke out a few words. "Thomas, right?"
He nodded and you felt yourself smile. "Luda May told me 'boutcha! C'mon in," you stepped aside and shuffled back towards your coffee machine. You heard Thomas enter slowly, shutting the door carefully behind him. "You want coffee?" You asked, looking over your shoulder at him.
Thomas looked dirty, the apron he wore stained with blood. If he didn't work at the meat plant, you would've been more alarmed. He just stared at you, unblinking. "Hot chocolate?" You tried, earning a quick nod. "Comin' right up!" You gave him a bright smile as you set about making coffee for yourself and hot chocolate for your guest.
"Luda May says you walk by my shop a lot." You hummed as you worked. "You're allowed to come in, y'know? I ain't gonna run you off."
Thomas was silent still. You got the feeling he didn't talk much. So you went into the back room as drinks brewed and opened one of your storage boxes. Despite the dusty, rough nature of the rest of the town, you prided yourself on keeping things clean and tidy. So you grabbed two cinnamon rolls and went to reheat them in the little oven.
All the while, you felt eyes on you. For some reason, you got a heavy feeling in your stomach but you pushed it down. He was strange, not dangerous.
You slid the man a mug of hot chocolate and a warm cinnamon roll across your countertop with a smile. "Yer always welcome here."
To be polite, you turned your back to him as you drank your coffee to let him take off the mask he wore to eat better. The two of you enjoyed breakfast in relative silence until, without much fanfare, Thomas stepped away from the counter and slipped out the front door, back into the Texas heat.
He was strange, without a doubt, but he meant well. It was clear Luda May adored him so he must just really be shy with strangers. You'd start stocking up more hot chocolate, despite it being summer, for if Thomas ever visited you again.
And, later that very afternoon, hundreds of men were seen leaving the meat plant. It was shut down for good by the health inspector. You watched from your windows as the angry men stormed home, yelling in protest and anger with each other.
You didn't see Thomas in the crowds though. You hoped he was okay...
With the meat plant shut down, life in Fuller came to a complete stop. Where once it had been difficult, it was now near impossible to continue living there. At least 85% of the town moved away by the end of the month, abandoning their properties or selling them. The town, effectively, shut down in a matter of weeks.
But you remained.
You didn't have anywhere to go or the means to leave. Selling the property was an option but where would you even go? You didn't exactly have a means of moving. Your little car couldn't hold all your possessions and getting a moving company to help was ridiculously expensive...
You felt trapped.
Luda May visited you late one afternoon, a sad smile on her face. "Hello dear." She said softly, the overhead bell ringing to announce her arrival.
Glancing up from the catalogue you were browsing, you smiled back. "Hey Mrs Hewitt. How can I help ya?"
She made her way up to your counter, looking down at the catalogue before looking back up at you. "The Jamisons moved away." She said softly. Your eyes widened and you straightened up. "Just this afternoon." Her voice was shaky as you reached over to hold her hands.
"I'm so sorry..." Your voice was soft as the old woman looked close to collapsing. "I know how close they were with the town, I-"
Luda May held your hands back tight. "It's been so hard, havin' everyone move away just like that. Like this town ain't worth nothin' without the meat plant." She grit her teeth against a wet sob. "My Tommy ain't got no place to work an' we- we can't leave. But if everyone else goes, what'll happen to us? What'll we do?"
You let go of Luda May long enough to slide over your counter to hug her. "I'm so sorry. I- I wish there was something I could do to help..."
She held you tight as she let herself sob. You swayed with her for a moment, trying your best to console her. "Ain't nowhere left to work in this town. We can't survive on pennies from my community center job, sweetheart. It's gettin' too hard." Luda May wept.
You felt for her, truly. "If there's anything I can do, please let me know. You an' your family have done so much for me, for the town. Least I can do is repay the favor."
Luda May pulled back slightly, wiping her cheeks. "You're too good for this world. Certainly the Lord blessed us when he sent you to this town." She sniffed once, straightening up and adjusting her glasses. "You should come on by for dinner tonight. We got guests comin' over an' I think you'd fit right in."
"Oh!" You perked up, smiling at her. "I'd love to! I've got this pie recipe I've been meanin' to try out, I think y'all will love it."
Luda May smiled and nodded along. "I got two hours left in my shift at the community center. I'll come on by and getcha after, alright?"
You nodded excitedly. "I'll get cleaned up. Thank you, I'm honored to be invited along!"
When you turned to hurry up the stairs to your little apartment, you missed the way Luda May's smile faded away. Her heart ached with remorse for what she was sentencing you to.
As she left the store, she cried silent tears for the betrayal she was about to give you.
But, as promised, Luda May came to pick you up just as the sun was going down. You'd gotten cleaned up, dressed nice in light clothing to protect yourself against the hot Texas afternoon. An airy, white and blue striped shirt with the collar pressed nicely alongside matching navy blue shorts. The boots you wore were simple and the cleanest shoes you owned.
When Luda May spotted you, smiling and waving at her as you clutched a wicker basket in your hands, she almost told you the truth. Almost made up a lie to keep you from coming over, to save you from the fate that Charlie - Hoyt, he'd insisted now - would surely sentence you to. But he'd been right. The family needed to eat.
She just wished you'd left town earlier. Packed up your cute little things into neat, nice boxes and left this shithole of a town. But no. You'd stayed because you were sweet. And you trusted her. Which only made her feel worse about putting you into this situation.
You, who had only ever been so kind and loving to her, her family, Tommy...
But she didn't say or do anything. She just smiled as you got into her old truck and drove you down the old, dirt road towards the Hewitt house. The old blue truck rattled but you were polite and didn't say a thing. You were too good for this world, in Luda May's eyes.
Maybe, just maybe, there could be a way to save you still.
The Hewitt farm was much bigger than you imagined. The large, manor-like house lay surrounded by various barns, cattle pens, and a nearby junkyard. You didn't let it show on your face but the whole place felt... Dirty.
Like dirt caked every surface, even lightly. As though if you were to drag your fingers across anything, you'd find layers of dirt and dust left on the tips of your fingers. You suppressed a shudder as Luda May left her truck, shutting the door rather loudly. You were quick to follow her up to the big house, stumbling slightly as you hurried.
"Now, be wary of the boys. They tend to be a bit rowdy this late in the day. Once dinner rolls 'round they'll settle. If any of them give you trouble, you come straight to me." Luda May said as you approached the door.
You gave her a quick nod. "Yes ma'am."
The smile she gave you was fond but it was also... something else.
Before you could figure out what, you heard a scream. Your heart lept to your throat but Luda May took your hand in hers and squeezed. "The boys play rough. They're alright, dear." She gave you a warm look. "Lets just get inside 'n outta this heat."
You obeyed, swallowing down a sick feeling you had rising in your stomach.
The inside of the house was. Messy, to say the least. But, you had to remind yourself to be polite as you were guided from the foyer to the kitchen. Some dishes lay in the sink, making Luda May curse. "Monty!" She called somewhere into the house. "Next time ya fuckin' leave dishes in the sink, I'm havin' Tommy throw your damn truck out!"
You blinked back in shock. You'd never heard her talk like that.
A man, who you could only assume was Monty, poked his head into the kitchen. "God damn woman, ain't my job to clean the place!"
Luda May scoffed. "I pride myself on runnin' a clean house. You start undoin' my hard work an' you can sleep in the barn with the other stupid animals!" She let out a loud huff. "Where's Tommy anyway?"
Monty shrugged. "Ain't seen 'im. Might be downstairs." He looked you up and down, over and over. The gesture made you feel dirty. "You can go look for 'im while I entertain our, uh, guest."
"Absolutely not." Luda May said, scrubbing a plate with a brush. "They're my guest, you an' Charlie can keep your dirty hands off. They're the sweet baker from down the road who makes those sweets y'all like so much."
He raised his eyebrows. "Are they now? Well I'll be damned."
You flushed under all the attention, fidgeting nervously with the basket in your hands and deciding to just set in on the counter nearby Luda May. "I could, um, go find Thomas. If- if you wanted?"
Anything to get away from Monty's leering eyes.
Luda May nodded to you. "He should be down in the basement workin'. Don't mind if he doesn't hear ya, you can shout."
You nodded and slipped out of the kitchen, hearing Luda May call the directions to you. Down the hall, first door on the left. Easy. The door in question was underneath a large staircase that led upstairs from the entry foyer. As you reached to open it, your hand froze on the doorknob. The sound of a revving chainsaw and screaming could be heard just beyond the door.
The sounds of heavy footsteps on the staircase above made your stomach swoop and you quickly opened the door and slipped inside. Your breath caught in your throat as the sounds got quieter, the screams turning to gurgles and the chainsaw dying down. Fearing the worst, you were silent on the rickety, old, wooden steps that went down into the darkness of the basement.
You held your breath as you neared the bottom, looking out into the dimly lit room.
Ice-hot fear shot through you at the sight. Thomas, standing over a man's body that was strapped to a table. The chainsaw he'd used lay on a bench beside the table as he appeared to be skinning the eviscerated man laying before him.
Thomas looked up at you and you slapped your hand over your mouth to cover your gasp. Tears filled your eyes as you scrambled back up the stairs, utterly terrified. You tore open the front door and took off running, only going faster when you heard Thomas chasing you.
But he knew the land better than you.
Eventually, through all your running and hiding, you found yourself cornered in one of the large, dusty barns. The ceiling and walls were wooden and the floor was just loose dirt. You whimpered when you saw Thomas's shadow approach you, wrapping your arms around yourself.
He stood in the open doorway, meat cleaver in hand as he stared at you. You backed up until you hit the wall but Thomas kept approaching you. "Are you going to hurt me?" You choked through a sob.
Thomas froze and just stared at you. You could tell your question had surprised him but he was quick to recover. He nodded. You felt your heart sink as you slid down to the dirt floor, curling up on yourself.
You sat there, curled up in the fetal position, and began to cry openly. Thomas made a soft grunt but you couldn't hear, too busy crying. You didn't want to die, much less at Thomas's hand. He'd always seemed nice, if a bit intimidating, but you thought he and Luda May were good people.
The memory of the basement flashed in your head and you blinked up at Thomas with wet, red-rimmed eyes. He seemed to deflate then, sitting down criss-crossed in front of you, careful to keep his distance. He set the cleaver down and put his hands in his lap and just watched you.
You sniffed. "Can... can you at least do it quick?"
Thomas looked guilty as he made a grumbling noise. You wished, momentarily, he could talk to you. At least then maybe he'd tell you what he was planning to do to you. Instead, he surprised you by picking up the cleaver and tossing it further away before looking expectantly back at you.
You blinked. "You're... you're not going to hurt me?"
Thomas shook his head.
"Are..." You swallowed a thick lump that had been lodged in your throat. "Are the others...?"
That made Thomas pause. With a thoughtful look, he shook his head once before holding out his hand to you. Slowly, like you were reaching for a dog that might bite your hand off if you were too fast, you slid your hand into his.
The size difference was considerable. His hand was at least a quarter size bigger than yours, if not more, and it was rough. You knew he'd worked at the meat plant cutting up meat so of course he'd have workers hands. He gingerly ran his thumb along the back of your hand, trying to reassure you.
"You won't... let them hurt me, right?" You asked, voice low.
He nodded his head, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. Whatever had changed his mind about hurting you, you weren't willing to question it. "Okay." You said softly, letting Thomas help you stand up. Your clothes were covered in dirt but you couldn't bring yourself to care.
Though you did almost retch when you saw the blood on his apron.
"Tommy, where'd you-" Luda May called out, freezing when she saw you with Thomas. He still hadn't let go of your hand as he stepped in front of you with a pleading sound. Luda May's shoulders seemed to sag. "I'm sorry, dear." She looked at you with a remorseful look. "I... I was hopin' to keep you from findin' out. Charlie's been... persistent 'bout gettin' food for the family an' I had no choice."
Your mind slowly caught up to what she was saying. "You... you brought me here to... to be killed and eaten?!" Tears began falling again, streaking down your dirt-covered cheeks.
Thomas squeezed your hand again and you felt like throwing up. Luda May didn't say anything as she looked to Thomas. "Charlie'll be angry to know you're keepin' them alive. Are you sure about this?"
He nodded once, still standing protectively in front of you. As terrified as you were - of both Thomas and the entire concept of being made into dinner - you felt a bit reassured that he was set on not hurting you.
Luda May sighed quietly. "Alright. Dinner'll be ready soon. Proper meat." She shot you a reassuring look. "You two get cleaned up. Charlie'll be back soon."
Thomas tugged your hand gently, looking down at you and asking you to follow. He guided you to walk ahead of him, gently pushing you along after Luda May. You glanced over your shoulder as you walked to spot Thomas picking the cleaver back up. When he noticed your alarmed look, he quickly put it behind his back with wide eyes.
You almost laughed at the hysterical nature of it all. You were being invited to dinner - which you nearly became - and the guy who was going to butcher you was hiding the cleaver so you wouldn't be scared of him. Like you were a kid who had no object permanence.
Thomas genuinely did not want to scare you. You knew that. It didn't make you any less terrified though.
Charlie Hewitt - or Sheriff Hoyt as he was calling himself now, as you were terrified to learn he'd also killed - was currently having a fit.
When you'd come downstairs having mostly cleaned off in the bathroom, he'd spotted you quickly. When Luda May informed him you were a friend of Thomas's and definitely not dinner, he'd been enraged. He'd started throwing things around the house, yelling at Luda May and Thomas, who both stood strong. "I asked ya to find somethin' for dinner and ya bring back nothing? Just some sad lookin' baker kid who ain't worth jack?!"
Luda May glared. "You give em any trouble, I'll beat ya black and blue and make ya sleep outside, ya hear? I ain't puttin' up with your shit tonight, Charlie."
"Hoyt, it's Hoyt now!" He yelled back, smashing a plate.
"Every dish you break, you buy a new one!" Luda May yelled, smacking his arm hard.
Hoyt's eyes fell on you as he glared. When he moved forward to grab you, Thomas was quick to interfere. You ducked behind his arm as he stood between you and Hoyt. "Thomas. Move." Hoyt snarled.
But Thomas didn't budge. In fact, he looked surprised as he looked down at you clinging to his forearm, terrified out of your mind. While you were scared of everyone in the room, Thomas was the most likely to defend you and defend you hard. The cleaver he'd been carrying was laying out on the table and, while you'd known Luda May longer, you doubted she'd be able to use it against Hoyt if he came closer.
"I won't ask you again, boy," Hoyt snarled. Thomas calmly lifted Hoyt up by the collar of his shirt and threw him aside, sending the man crashing into the table with a hard tumble.
Luda May spoke up then. "That's enough!" She snapped at both Hoyt and Thomas. "You two clean up this mess."
Hoyt glared over at her. "We look after family. They," he pointed a finger at you as he stood, "ain't family."
You shared a nervous look with Luda May, who remained steady. "They may as well be. Far as I'm concerned, they're the only one who provided food for dinner tonight." She glared down at Hoyt. "While you were runnin' around playin' dress up."
Hoyt was quiet. "What'd they bring?"
"Meat pies." You said quietly. When Hoyt looked at you, you repeated yourself louder, fearing his anger. "I brought meat pies. L-lamb ones."
The room was silent. "Ya brought lamb pot pies?" Hoyt asked slowly, raising an eyebrow. You nodded frantically and he sighed. "Alright, fine, ya can stay." He grumbled, leaving the room with a huff.
You looked up at Thomas with nervous eyes. The mask he wore obscured a lot of his face but you could see his eyes. He blinked slowly, a softness there you were surprised by.
Clutching his arm tighter, you let yourself relax as Thomas stood protectively beside you. You could survive this, you thought to yourself.
You will survive this.
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