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kvtie444 · 6 months

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⋆‧₊˚ TEACHERS PET pt. 3

A/N: ALL CHARACTERS ARE OVER 18!! ITS ESCAPISM SZNNN, sorry this was late I had a bubble bath and zoned out

Summary: Reader has a new teacher and finds herself falling for him blahblahblah teachers pet by melanie vibes xoxo

Warnings: NSFW, alcohol, swearing, smut?????!!!!!!

・₊✧⋆⭒˚｡⋆

Madi F:

What are you doing tomorrow night? x

Navigating the familiar path to my dorm, keys in hand, I type my response with a single hand.

Y/N:

Hey! Nothing why?

Upon entering my dorm, I secure the door and toss my keys and bag onto the bed. My journey continues to the bathroom, where I prepare for bed. Placing my phone on the sink, I secure my hair with a headband as I cleanse my face, as I hear to Madi's text buzz.

Madi F:

Some of us are going clubbing. I know it's not really your scene, but wanna come? X

Contemplating the proposition while washing my face, the enjoyment of clubbing has faded, but the realization of my limited social circle nudges me to consider the offer. Another unexpected message interrupts my thoughts, expecting it to be Madi, my jaw drops upon seeing Matt’s name.

Matt S:

Did you get in okay?

His simple yet endearing message prompts a smile as I respond, tapping my nails against the screen.

Y/N:

Yeah, thank you. Thanks for the lift, by the way. Can I send you money for gas?

Returning to Madi's chat, a surge of confidence prompts me to embrace the social opportunity.

Y/N:

I think I'll come. If you want, we could do pres at mine.

A sense of pride accompanies the message. Madi's enthusiastic reply further boosts my spirits.

Madi F:

YAY!!! 😁😁🩷

After completing my night routine, I collapse onto my bed. Leaning over and retrieving Matt's book from my bag, I begin reading, engrossed in the story for hours. As the clock strikes 12:05, I get a notification with Matt's delayed reply, a smile creeps over my face.

Matt S:

No, don't worry about it. It's fine. You're a student Y/N, you need to use your money wisely.

His reminder of my student status elicits a slight frown. Seeking a change of topic, I send a lighthearted message.

Y/N:

I like the book.

Matt S:

I knew you would.

A smile graces my face, and despite my inner voice to end the conversation, the thrill of talking with him literally makes me kick my feet. I decide to just leave it, switching off my phone, I toss it aside and close my eyes, embracing sleep.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Saturday night arrives, and Madi is on her way. Nervous anticipation lingers as I gaze into the full-length mirror, carefully selecting my outfit. Wearing my hair straight with a full face of glam, I don a black deep V-neck cropped tank and my favourite mini skirt, complemented by mini black platforms. The rare chance to dress up invokes a sense of confidence. I capture a few pics before I hear Madi knocking.

Walking to the door, the clacking of my heels announces my approach. I open the door to find Madi and six other girls. "Hey!" Madi exclaims, initiating hugs. Pleasant introductions follow, and the girls bring drinks. With music playing from my speaker, we engage in small talk whilst I sip my Malibu and pineapple juice.

About an hour and a half later, we decide to head to the club. Ordering Ubers, we gather outside the club, reputed as the biggest one frequented by college students. As we queue up, the effects of our drinks start to kick in, dizziness taking control of me. By the time we enter the club, the music resonates loudly. Heading to the bar, one of Madi's friends engages the bartender, securing 7 shots for us all. Jaeger bombs in hand, we down the shots, and the pulsating taste lingers on my tongue. Next thing I know, Sexyy Red starts, and we are pulled onto the dance floor. Madi and I sway and sing together, but a presence behind me interrupts the moment – a hand on my hip. Turning, I encounter a random blonde guy. Am I drunk enough to lower my standards to a 6/10? No.

Looking back to Madi, I s hoot her a look before she drags me back to the girls. after a few more songs, I decide to get another drink. Approaching the bar, I order a double vodka Red Bull, tapping my card and waiting. I look around and my heart drops – no less that 3 feet away, I see Matt, paying for a drink. Our eyes lock, and I grab my drink, attempting to walk straight past him, but he’s quick to stop me.

"Hey," he says, placing a hand on the small of my back. The touch sends shivers down my spine. Looking up at him, I smile, "Hey. What are you doing here?" I ask, tilting my head. He downs his shot before responding, "Clubbing?" he replies with his brows furrowed, chuckling at my apparent surprise. I giggle, feeling a blush creep up.

"I didn't see you as the clubbing type," I say, leaning in slightly due to the loud music. He shrugs, "I enjoy my drinks, I feel his eyes scanning almost every inch of my body due to how little I was really wearing. He licks his lips before looking back up to me. He leans as his hand remains on the small of my back, warm breath teasing my skin, "Wanna go somewhere more quiet? Can barely hear you." He asks me, I nod, absolutely dumbfounded by his presence, and he guides me through the crowd, hand on my waist.

The realization hits me – maybe this isn't a delusion. He leads us to a quieter hallway, still audible with music, and a few others scattered around. His hand leaves my side as he leans against the wall opposite me. I mirror his stance, facing each other. Crossing his arms, his slightly cropped shirt rises, revealing the waistband of his Calvin Klein boxers. He had such a slutty waist. My gaze drops to my hands, fiddling with my nails. He breaks the silence.

"Did you come here with a guy?"

"No, just some of the girls. Can't stand guys my age," I mumble, meeting his eyes. His gaze moves down my body before staring deeply into my eyes.

"Why’s that?"

"They're all immature," I start. He begins stepping closer, narrowing the already small space.

"And they don't know how to treat me right," I continue. He hums in agreement.

"Is that it?" he asks, now standing directly in front of me. Our bodies would be touching if I stood up straight, I bit my lip.

"Guys my age don't know how to touch me," I say, the alcohol boosting my confidence. His jaw clenches as he lets out a heavy breath. His tattooed hand moves to my waist, the other reaching up to my face, thumb rubbing my cheek. Panic sets in - what have I gotten myself into? Am I really going to cross this boundary?

"Want me to show you how good I can make you feel?" he says, his grip firm, eyes locking onto mine. I nod, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah."

Before I know it, he grabs my arm and drags me to the accessible bathroom stall, kissing me passionately. The euphoric sensation of the kiss overwhelms me as he pushes me against the wall, kicking the door shut behind him. Pressed against the wall, I willingly surrender to his dominance, allowing his tongue to explore and claim every inch of my parted lips.

His kisses travel a path down my jaw, leaving a trail of hickies. He explores down to my collars with a mixture of gentle sucking and teasing bites, each touch setting my skin ablaze. A soft moan escapes my lips as his hands find their way to my hips, pulling our bodies together bruisingly tight.

Returning to my lips, he intensifies the kiss, his hands sliding up beneath my thighs effortlessly. He picks me up, making me gasp, he hoists me up as though I weigh nothing, seamlessly carrying me across the small space to the sink.

Sitting me on the smooth surface, he maintains the seamless connection between our lips. The heat of the moment pulses between us, his hands trailing down to my hips, pulling me closer. The rhythmic dance of our bodies becomes a symphony of desire, with his lips never parting from mine. The sink counter becomes a temporary throne of passion as our connection deepens and the world outside the stall fades away. His hands trace a heated path down my body, gripping my ass with an assertive pull, drawing me tightly against him. The pressure of his hard on against my stomach sends a shiver through me, and a soft whine escapes my lips in response to the overwhelming desire.

My hands instinctively find their way into his hair, entwining my fingers as he pulls away, his gaze locked with mine. His hand boldly ventures up my skirt, fingers cupping my pussy, teasing, and pressing against my entrance. The sensation elicits an involuntary moan from me, and I tilt my head back, lost in the intensity of the moment.

"M-Matt, please, “I whimper breathlessly, aching against him. "Please, what, baby?" he teases, a smirk playing on his lips as he watches my desperate state. "Please, I need you," I shamelessly beg. He smiles, his pink lips pressing a quick kiss to my jaw, before pulling my underwear to the side. I wince as the cool air meets my exposed skin, his thumb brushing against my eager lips. "Open," he demands.

Parting my lips, I willingly comply, and he slides his thumb in. I suck on it as he pushes further, evoking a heavenly groan from his lips. "Good girl," he murmurs, withdrawing his thumb and shifting it down to my clit. Initially, he presses against it, not yet moving, drawing a whine from me. I grab his arm, yearning for more contact. He smirks as he gradually begins circling my clit with his thumb, causing me to throw my head back against the mirror behind me.

His pointer finger slips inside me while he continues to circle my clit with his thumb, making me let out a loud moan. "Look at me," he orders, bringing a momentary pause to his movements. I open my eyes to meet his gaze, and he bites his lip, smiling, resuming his movements. "So wet for me, angel," he remarks, moving down to kiss my neck. I tilt my head to grant him better access, gasping as he adds another finger and proceeds to suck hickeys into my sensitive skin.

Tugging at his hair, he groans, the knot in my stomach growing tighter. I clench around his fingers, whimpering, "Matt." He urges, "Shit, come for me, princess," against my collarbone. I moan, releasing my pent-up pleasure, his fingers slowing down in response. I grab his wrist, pulling him out of me, then guiding his fingers to my lips, sucking them clean.

As I look into his eyes, his once blown-out pupils abruptly contract. He withdraws his fingers from me and steps back, muttering a soft curse to himself. I stand up, my legs slightly aching, and adjust my underwear. He turns away and begins walking toward the door. What the fuck?

"Matt?" I almost yell. He freezes for a moment, turning his head to glance back at me. However, he doesn't linger, opening the door and leaving. Confusion floods me. I can't help but feel tears welling in my eyes. Everything happened so quickly—what the fuck did I do wrong?

I remain frozen until a man barges into the bathroom, heading for the toilet and gagging. I scrunch my face in disgust, walking out, my heels loudly clacking against the floor as I make my way towards the exit. I need to get out of here. The music grows louder, and a tightness grips my chest, making my breathing difficult. Someone grabs my wrist, and I turn around, relaxing when I see it's Madi.

"Where have you been, girl? Shit- Who gave you those hickeys?" she says, smiling and inspecting my neck, blissfully unaware of the gravity of the situation. "Don't worry about it. I'm just getting some air," I lie, quickly turning away and walking out of the club. Fuck. I open my phone and book an Uber. While I wait, I open Matt's chat, debating whether or not to text him. Fuck it.

Y/N:

Wtf happened tonight? Can we talk?

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Read. He left me on fucking read. It's been three days, and I've been dreading today - I have a lesson with him. I walk to my class, pushing the door open to find he's not in yet. I take my seat next to Madi, who stays silent. I think she knows I need space just judging by my presence - hoodie up, headphones still on, slouched in my chair with no books out.

About five minutes later, Matt comes in. He teaches as if nothing's happened, and throughout the lesson, he doesn't even look at me once. What a dick. The final bell rings, and I get out of my chair, walking behind everyone else. Right as I reach the door, our eyes meet. Shit. I quickly look away, pettily slamming the door shut behind me. Hold on. You know what? I'm not going to let this man USE me and then completely IGNORE me? Who does he fucking think he is? I turn around, slamming the door open. He looks up as if he's just seen a ghost, and I hear the door shut behind me.

"What the fuck is your problem?" I say, my brows knitted together. "Y/N, you need to go," he says. "No, I deserve an explanation. Do you think it's okay to just use girls, then fucking leave them?" I yell, stepping closer. He looks down, tongue in cheek. "I've got essays to mark."

"I don't give two shits, Matt," I reply hastily. He looks up at me, and his face softens at the sight of the hurt on my face. "Did I do something wrong?" I ask, feeling more vulnerable. He sighs, stepping closer, his hand coming up to my cheek.

"No, Y/N, shit, I panicked. I like you, Y/N, like a lot, but you're my student. You saw what happened to Kennedy. You think I want to get fired?" he says sweetly. I sniffle and look down, before he lifts my face back up with his hand.

"I'm not stupid, Matt. You're the one who told me how smart I am. No one's gonna find out about this," I reply, biting my lip. "It was just a one-time thing, right?" I continue. He looks at me.

"Would you like it to be a one-time thing?"

"No."

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#chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #imagine #angst #chris sturniolo x reader #fluff #matt sturniolo x reader #nick sturniolo #smut #Spotify

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bloompompom · 7 months

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

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

♡ pairings: rockstar!eren jaeger x popstar!female reader, eren jaeger x historia reiss ♡ content: ~7.2k word count. enemies-to-lovers, jealousy, suggestive themes, lots of explicit language (they like f-bombs sorry), slut shaming, mentions of alcohol. reader discretion advised. ♡ previous chapter | next chapter | series masterlist

★ Chapter Four ★

One step forward, and a million steps back.

It felt like the world had started up again when the creative director clapped his hands, calling for a five-minute break. The resounding sound echoed through you as everyone began to buzz around like flies.

You blinked, hard, snapped from whatever trance you had to be in—the one that gave you that glossy, no-thoughts-behind-those-eyes look the camera loved.

You blinked again when an assistant shoved a hand in front of your face. He offered to help you to your feet, as you were still on the floor, looking more or less comparable to a prowling jungle cat. Or better yet, you felt like you had been spilled and splattered, just waiting for someone to come and clean you up.

You declined his hand, politely. He took you by the elbow anyway after one of your heels wobbled underneath you.

“I mean it: five minutes.” The director looked down at his wrist, checking a watch that wasn’t really there. “Four minutes and fifty-nine seconds now. Fifty-eight, fifty-seven—”

Cool silk hit your shoulders as another assistant draped a robe over you, pathetically thin for such a frigid studio. She even held the sleeves out for you, one at a time, ensuring you had to move as little as humanly possible, as if you were something made of glass. As if you would break.

You cinched the robe’s ties around your waist. When you finished, a water bottle landed in the palm of your right hand. The assistant that tossed it to you, the third one in the last thirty seconds, and reminded you to stay hydrated.

And yes, they were always this fussy over you. And when it came to photo shoots, they were always extra fussy. This one was for your upcoming single, so it had to be perfect.

Pieck was off by herself in the corner, her back turned to you. Curiously, you made your way over to her, cracking and twisting the bottle’s lid to take a sip as you went.

If you were to be honest, it was more than a sense of curiosity; the painfully optimistic part of you hoped she would allow you to have the rest of the day to yourself. It was your week of vocal rest, after all.

But, of course, there was never a break with Pieck. Even for those measly five minutes, you couldn’t power down your brain because you found her crouched over her iPad. Devil’s Paradise (Eren specifically) was on the screen. You could see it from feet away.

You had caught her doing this before, stalking the band like some obsessive fan girl. She called it studying, but you called it useless. ‘Eren is about as deep as a kiddie pool,’ you had told her. Shallow and superficial. Why try to keep digging when you could already see the bottom?

You let out a groan loud enough to catch her attention. “Can’t I go one day without seeing Eren’s stupid face?” Then you took another swig of water, felt it trickle its way down your throat, like it could wash the taste of his name off your tongue.

Pieck didn’t reply. She just returned to watching the live stream. You didn’t need to see her face to imagine her scowl vividly.

Devil’s Paradise, the band that came out of nowhere, the underdogs, who won their category’s Best Album Award, were now everywhere. You were sure this was the first of many, many performances they would have to do—tons of interviews, too.

Oh, the interviews. So. Many. Interviews.

Your eyes fell on Mikasa next, and your face softened. It was only slight, no greater than a flicker, because the camera soon panned to Eren beside her. She smiled brightly at him, and he returned it, looking just as sparkly. You tried to think if you’d ever seen him smile like that—that big—before. Only for the cameras, for your faux relationship, but you weren’t dumb enough to believe those flashy grins were genuine. But this smile was. It was the kind that made your eyes squint and your mouth open wide enough to let a laugh slip through your teeth; you could hear it when he sang. It bothered you.

“I don’t know how she’s friends with him,” you grunted, gesturing toward the screen. “Let alone how she puts up with him on the regular.”

Speaking of fan girls, there were more than plenty there. Cramped and piled atop one another, pushing and threatening to tip over the barrier around the stage just for the chance to touch Eren. You weren’t sure if it made you want to laugh or vomit in your mouth.

“All you do is complain about Eren.” Pieck looked at you from over her shoulder. “Eren this, Eren that. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were an old married couple.”

She knew that would get under your skin. Defensively, you sucked in a breath and complained, “Well, I don’t know why you have to watch this, and right now of all times.”

Simultaneously, you and Pieck said, “It’s literally my job.” She said the phrase all the time, and after the years spent together, she was easy enough to predict. Still, it made her huffy.

“Can’t you do it somewhere else?” You eased your voice. “Please.”

She opened her mouth to say ‘no,’ but before she could, your newest intern popped in. Pieck told you that partnering with a local college for an internship opportunity would look good for your image. Always with your image. But you could admit it was nice to have a fresh face around, even if her only job was to run and get your coffee.

“Levi Ackerman texted you,” she quietly interrupted.

You reluctantly flopped your hands in the air. “One day. Just one day. That’s all I ask.”

It was rather dramatic, and Pieck quickly consoled the frightened student. “It’s nothing you did.” She glowered at you. “She’s just in a mood. You can ignore her when she’s like this.”

Still hesitant, voice shaking—you almost felt bad about it—she briefly explained what you already knew. Eren had texted you last night requesting (demanding) the jacket you ‘stole’ because it was a rental. You were tired and brushed it off. But now, it was apparently Levi’s turn since it was his duty to return it, not Eren’s.

You waved it off with, “The jacket’s at my place, draped over the chair. You can’t miss it. It’s the only black thing there.” Otherwise, your living room was entirely white. Pristine.

“Oh, no,” Pieck interrupted, like she had another bright idea of hers locked, loaded, and ready to fire. “Don’t make the newbie do your dirty work.”

You wanted to correct her, but you couldn’t with said newbie standing right beside you.

“You should do it,” Pieck urged. “Maybe even post a photo of you two together or something. You know your name trends whenever you’re with him. It’s advertising for your new single.”

You grumbled, so low that it was practically incoherent, even to yourself. Just angry, childish noises.

“I thought you’d want to see your boyfriend.” Pieck’s urgent eyes jumped to the intern, then back to you. You were blowing your cover. The last thing you needed was for some college girl to go around spreading gossip and telling the world you were snotty to Eren. If anything, you’d prefer the opposite to leak. Maybe then you could finally dump him.

So, you smiled even though it physically hurt while you replied, “You’re right. It’s a nice excuse to spend some time with him.” You didn’t know which was worse, saying you wanted to see Eren or admitting Pieck was right. You sweetened the smile when you turned to the intern. “We’ve both just been so busy.”

She gave a wary smile of her own, but it was enough for you to believe she bought it. Pieck patted her back, then told her to run off before she could realize the truth: that you and Eren were not, in fact, dating, and it was more like you were uncordial acquaintances. At most.

In actuality—and this was something you’d never tell Pieck—the faux-lationship had been tolerable since the award show. You could at least hold a conversation, though limited to the same discussions you’d have with the stranger doing your nails. So—thoughtful pause—where did you say you were from? Oh, I have a friend from there. Like a toddler taking their first steps, it was fumbling and awkward, but you were still managing to get somewhere.

You returned home, pouted a bit because you desperately wanted to stay, then grabbed the jacket and tucked it beneath your arm. You hadn’t touched it since that night, after you slipped it from your shoulders and questioned why, in that moment, you wanted to take it with you. It was strange, like it didn’t belong, so you didn’t touch it.

You drove yourself to Eren’s place. You didn’t mind it, actually; not just the moment of solitude and silence, but the drive itself. You didn’t venture to this side of the city often. You had almost forgotten how beautiful it was. Ocean waves glimmered in streaks of sunlight. Lush greenery splattered the horizon with hues of summery pinks and yellows, every bloom fresh. And from Eren’s doorstep, there was only the wispy sound of palms tickling your ears. All of it stood in stark contrast to your life in the city.

You found his house easily enough thanks to Levi. He forwarded you the address, telling you he made sure the right people knew to expect you—at least, that was your interpretation of ‘no one should cause you any trouble.’ Which made it sound a whole lot like someone was going to cause you trouble, but you had a feeling Levi enjoyed being cryptic.

It was this loft-style home, constructed from stacked stone and clean, walnut-colored wood. When you said ‘loft-style,’ that didn’t mean it was small by any means, but it was still the right size for one. Frankly, you were shocked by it. You would have guessed he’d buy something more boastful after suddenly plunging head-first into fame.

You didn’t announce your arrival beforehand. You didn’t know you were supposed to. And as was the rightful consequence, Eren didn’t answer on your first knock. Or your second, for that matter.

“‘No one should cause you any trouble.’ Yeah, right,” you huffed.

The house had these giant windows on every wall, and still, you couldn’t peek inside because of their tint. Not that you were about to go through all that effort over a jacket.

When you knocked a third time, it was with the blunt of your fist. You waited out another impatient moment, then quickly realized that driving out here was useless. You couldn’t wait to tell Pieck that you were right.

Just before you turn away, a camera, smack in the center of the wall, caught your attention. You didn’t know how you missed it, but you debated going on as if you had, plopping the expensive jacket on the ground. After a pause, you decided to give Eren one last chance because you were a nice person. You pressed one of the buttons, then another, unsure of which would ring him.

The only thing you knew it did for certain was trigger a blinking red light, prompting you to ask, “Eren? Can you hear me?”

You announced yourself and displayed the jacket for the camera. Could he even see it? God, you felt silly. Frustrated, too. It seeped into your voice when you said, “I’m here with the jacket you needed so desperately.”

Finally, there was a sign of life.

“What?” It wasn’t accusatory, but disoriented. Eren’s voice sounded muffled through the microphone. Even so, you knew he was far too groggy for two o’clock in the afternoon. “Why are you here?”

“I said,” you stressed, “I have your jacket. The one you’ve been bothering me about. Tell me you haven’t forgotten already.”

“I didn’t mean you had to bring it, like, now.”

“Well, Levi did.” There was a long, long pause. “So, are you going to let me in?”

Eren didn’t reply. You couldn’t believe it—well, maybe you could, knowing him.

You darted a hand toward the button again. Before you could make contact, the quick swing of the door startled you. You jumped back as Eren made himself comfortable, leaning against the door with his arms folded across his chest. He looked like he had just rolled out of bed. You called him out for it.

“You look like crap.”

“I feel like it,” he replied, his voice as monotone as ever.

You believed him. Greeted by the afternoon sun, his fluttering eyes could hardly stay open. The feeling was almost visceral. Just by looking at him, you could practically feel a throbbing in your temples and the ‘I’m never drinking again’ wretch of your stomach. Thinking about it now, the last time you said those very words was the morning after you met Eren.

Still, he hadn’t snatched the jacket from you or slammed the door in your face (yet), so it couldn’t have been that awful. Perhaps you were a welcomed distraction to his wicked hangover.

“So,” you drawled, forcing the jacket into his hands, finally ridding yourself of the damn thing. “Here you go.”

Eren looked from the jacket to you.

“You really came all the way here just to give this back?” His eyebrow raised as he spoke. It matched the snide curl of his lip. “Huh. You ought to be more careful. Someone might get the impression you actually wanted to see me.”

“Good one,” you said, faking a laugh. “That definitely won’t be an issue.” You took a pace back, then another. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“You’re the one who begged me to let you in.”

You didn’t beg.

He caught you mid-spin, ready to flee down the steps and back to your car, off on your merry way.

“You don’t have to act shy about it. You’re allowed to check the place out, if you want. We are dating, after all.”

Sarcasm or not, you despised the sentence, and you definitely weren’t ‘acting.’ But despite how good it would feel to ignore him and strut back to your car, a part of you—a very, very small part—wanted to see the inside of his house, to learn what Eren Jaeger was about. Though you were already sure you had a pretty good idea.

Of course, you didn’t want to admit your curiosity; you couldn’t bear to say the words, ‘Sure, I’d like to come inside,’ let him hold the door open for you and everything. So after a short pause and a flagrant eye roll, you stepped past him, tossing back, “Maybe you’re the one who should be more careful. Someone might get the impression you actually like me.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” His face went dull again, so fast that you must have made up whatever brightness you thought was there. You frowned but continued inside anyway.

Eren excused himself to freshen up, and by that, you meant he said he’d be right back after you asked him if he had just woken up.

“Have you even brushed your teeth yet?” you playfully asked.

“No,” he said. Your nose wrinkled. “What? I wasn’t expecting company. I just told you: you woke me up.”

“You should really take that up with Levi then.”

Once you could no longer hear his footsteps, you used the brief interlude to poke your head around.

If you hadn’t seen the unweathered exterior, you would have thought the house was built years before it existed—walls with lots of character, black and white diner tile in the kitchen. Of course, like the outside, everything was crisp and brand new, down to every slick, black beam above your head.

It only made the punches of retro color bolder; you kept glancing over to the couch. Its pretty rust color caught your attention, the back of it neatly tufted though covered by a strewn shirt. None of the furniture appeared to be made within the last decade despite remaining in immaculate condition. Someone lacking a keen eye might glaze over it, but you recognized that none of this was easy to come by.

Both fittingly and stereotypically, Eren had some guitars displayed on the far wall. That was where he found you when he returned. You didn’t turn to look at him, only talking once you knew he was near.

“Do you actually write your own songs, or is that just another bullshit marking tactic?”

Eren chuckled. Despite the crunchy delivery, he could tell you searching for a legitimate answer. “Yes, I actually write them.”

“I wish I could do that,” you hummed. “My name’s always listed beside my co-writer, but really, I barely get any say. Maybe changing a word or two, but that’s it. That way, I can honestly say I helped, as if that even mattered.”

Was your team really that desperate to keep you in line? Eren couldn’t imagine that was something you requested—to sacrifice your income, your ownership to a co-writer… just to be called generic.

He had no idea what to say now.

Choosing to take the optimistic approach, he said, “Well, it seems to have worked out for you so far. I mean, you’ll probably perform at the Super Bowl someday, right?”

You laughed at that, no more than a huff through your nose. “Is that your measure of success?”

He shrugged innocently. “I mean…”

It was the definition a ten-year-old would give, but you supposed he had a point, even if it was rather boyish.

Whatever was happening between you right then was snuffed out. Silence ensued. You kept your eyes busying over the guitars to avoid the building tension.

Only when Eren spontaneously asked, “So, you don’t have a single song you’re passionate about? Or one that you’re proud of?” did you realize he was still stewing on your conversation.

“My dad always said passion projects were a waste of time,” you said, noting the wistfulness in your voice.

“Every one of our albums is a passion project.”

Your eyes flickered to him, thinking you had offended him and this was about to turn into another argument. He only continued.

“But I get it—the whole disappointed dad thing. My dad’s a doctor, so you can imagine how he felt when I told him I wanted to sing.” You chuckled a little at that. “But he gets it now, as much as he can. I’m not sure he would if I didn’t make something of myself. A parent’s love can be a bit conditional, can’t it?”

Eren’s words lingered in your mind. You tried to make sense of them, picking apart what he had shared with you and why. You let the sentiment hang heavy in the air. You didn’t allow it in. Your guard was as high as a watch tower, and you wouldn’t let him coax you into dropping it any time soon. You learned the hard way that he wasn’t the handle-with-care type. He liked to push his way in and mess up what wasn’t his. You bet he was also the guy who left hotel rooms in ruins, too, attributing it to his ‘rockstar lifestyle.’

You reached a hand toward one of the guitars, stopping short of touching it in case he was particular about them. When he didn’t stop you, you ran the tips of your fingers over the smooth wood.

He was still at your side when he asked, “Do you play?”

You didn’t know when he became such a conversationalist. After a longer than necessary pause, you decided to answer.

“More or less.”

Based on his pause, you realized your answer wasn’t going to cut it.

“I’ve been teaching myself. Only in my spare time, which, as you know, isn’t much.”

Before you even finished talking, Eren had started to take the guitar down from the wall.

“Show me what you can do.”

Your throat tightened. You scanned over his face. Once, then twice, and you couldn’t find any indication he was screwing with you.

You couldn’t remember the last time you even held a guitar; it had to be months ago. If Eren were to discover how rusty—no, how bad you were—he’d undoubtedly add it to his growing list of ways to embarrass you.

Your feet didn’t follow after him, but your eyes did. He made his way across the room, then expectantly turned to look at you.

“It’s fine. I couldn’t.” You were stumbling over your words, trying to think how to crawl out of this hole you had dug. “Besides, I’m not even supposed to be here. I should probably get—”

“Yeesh,” Eren remarked. “Do you always talk this much when you’re nervous?”

“I’m not nervous!” It was a half-lie. You stopped toying with your fingers and proved it to him (and yourself) by waltzing right on past him.

You sat on that pretty, vintage sofa—its fabric softer than you predicted—and waited for him to hand you the guitar. You didn’t let him lay the strap around your shoulder; you could manage that yourself.

“Good. Because it’s not like I’m gonna make fun of you.” He sounded just about as convincing as you did. A smirk dug into the corners of his cheeks. “Much.”

What did you say earlier?

Once you had adjusted the guitar comfortably in your lap, you slid your hand higher on the fretboard and felt the strings against the doughy tips of your fingers—a sensation you hadn’t experienced in a long while.

You looked up at Eren like you needed his permission. You stared at one another for a strange second, then eventually cleared your throat to ask, “What am I supposed to play?”

“I don’t know. Anything.”

That’s the problem—I don’t know ‘anything,’ at least not off the top of my head.

If your memory were a vault, you would have thought it had been raided and left barren, without even a penny left. Everything you had learned, everything you had taught yourself, vanished. You clammed up, the same way you did when someone asked about your favorite song or movie, and without fail, it was as if you had never consumed a piece of media in your life. How silly of you—able to sing for thousands upon thousands of people, but you couldn’t bring yourself to play the guitar in front of a single person.

You were shrinking by the second. Eren must have sensed it, too. You expected him to ridicule you, but he only added, “Just show me what notes you know.”

That brightness was back. The very same that you swore you saw earlier on his face, you now heard in his words. His voice lifted, like he had thrown in a dash of sugar to help the bitter, ho-humness go down easier. You wouldn’t call it gentle, he wasn’t capable of that, but he did seem genuine. Truthfully, he had seemed genuine—maybe authentic was a better word—from the moment you entered his house. You didn’t know how to feel now that you recognized it for what it was.

You sucked in a deep breath and told yourself you were only humoring him when you strummed a note. Another, too, as you learned the guitar, trying to remember how it was supposed to feel in your hands. It wasn’t like riding a bicycle, though; it felt entirely foreign.

Your discomfort bled through you and onto every note like ink to paper. Everything felt wrong, down to the way you held Eren’s guitar, as if you were afraid of it. The more rigid you were, the more delicate your touch, the worse it sounded.

Eren let his head fall to one side. “Okay, I know you can do better than that.”

Perhaps it was his attempt at encouraging you, but it had the opposite effect. Your face was stricken with heat, your voice bordering into the embarrassed, whiny territory when you admitted, “I’m scared I’m going to break it.”

“Why would it break?” He gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “C’mon, just play it.”

You brushed him off with a tiny ‘fine, fine’ and started to play what little you could recall. Then, surprisingly, it came back to you. Slowly, but it did—up until you tried to hit an F chord. You were actually trying this time, too, but it was less like a hit and more like a weak swing. Even when you were alone in your bedroom, you hadn’t nailed it yet, couldn’t get your fingers in the right spots, or make it sound right despite pressing down so hard it made your fingers sting. It would take time to build the finger dexterity and strength—time you didn’t have.

After another good try, Eren blurted out, “You have to do this,” like he couldn’t hold it in any longer.

He came in closer, not sitting on the couch but walking around the back of it. With eyes fixed on your hand placement, you didn’t need to look to know when he stood behind you, to feel it when he leaned in closer.

Eren touched you without an ounce of hesitation, no different than if he had done it a million times before. He took your hand into his and adjusted one of your fingers a little to the left. Then he wrapped his fingers over yours, pressing them down on the strings harder than you had. You didn’t feel it, as if your fingers were numb. In fact, it sort of felt like your entire body went numb.

“There,” Eren said. He didn’t take his hand off yours, maintaining the same amount of pressure as he instructed, “Now strum.”

It reminded you of when someone was so awful at dancing they’d have to stand on their partner’s shoes. But you did as you were told, and already it sounded cleaner than a moment ago. And the second time sounded even better. Eren’s hand was slow to leave yours, but when it did, the note still held.

Singing was second nature to you; you had done it since childhood. But learning a new skill as an adult was another beast. You couldn’t help but think how much better you’d be—how practicing would suck less—if you had someone to teach you. Just to help you jump through the beginner’s hurdles like this and get your feet off the ground.

Whatever! That didn’t matter now. You were delighted by the whole thing, so much so that you strummed and strummed, practicing your new riff as if Eren wasn’t there, not thinking anything of it when he came to sit by you. You were busy thinking about the guitar in your hands, how you wanted to spend the rest of the day with your guitar back home, if you could find it. You prayed it wasn’t Pieck texting you when you felt your phone buzz. You ignored it for now, already scheming ways you could sneak lessons into your schedule without her noticing.

You kept on playing, long after you thought you would. You went on, waiting for Eren to cut you off, but he never did. Once you realized you were still strumming away to your heart’s content, you finally stopped.

“That was better.” You heard the excitement growing in your voice. “That was totally better, right?”

Embarrassingly enough, Eren couldn’t give you an answer. And if you were to ask him what he was thinking about just then, he couldn’t tell you that either. He couldn’t remember a damn thing, not a note of it. He couldn’t even tell you if your finger placement was correct or not because your hand had already returned to your side.

A cold wave of panic rushed over him as he blanked on what to say. Whatever he told you besides ‘I don’t know’ would be a lie, so he just hoped he would say the right thing because he wasn’t sure what was going to come out, honestly.

“That was—that was good.”

His voice wavered, but you didn’t deem it worthy of another thought because you were too focused on your little win for the day. You couldn’t even suppress the grin on your face. That may have been the first compliment Eren had ever given you, if you were excluding the backhanded ones, which you were.

The thought skipped through your mind, and what followed was the same nausea you get on a rollercoaster, that whooshing feeling and all.

You couldn’t bear to look him in the face any longer, so you dropped your gaze and willed yourself calm. You tried to ignore how close the two of you were—how close you had been for some time now. You tried to look anywhere else, even tried not to be obvious about it, but you could only think of his knee against yours. You hadn’t noticed it before, and now it was the only thing you could feel.

When you met his eyes again, you found they were already staring back at you. You half expected him to pull back and crack some snide comment. You expected him to do anything besides the one thing you—way down deep inside you—really expected but couldn’t admit.

Your heart started to thump faster, louder, ringing in your ears. When your phone vibrated again, you didn’t hear it.

You couldn’t stand Eren. Everyone knew that already; you had drilled it into their heads dozens upon dozens of times. To even reiterate it now was redundant. But that didn’t cancel out your attraction to him. It didn’t work like that, unfortunately. You could deny it as much as you wanted—and you had at least three times in the last minute. Such passion-fueled emotions lived on the same spectrum. Both could exist at once, even if they were at odds with each other. Whether you liked it or not, lust wasn’t like a light switch; you couldn’t just flip it on and off whenever you wished—and yes, you were still working to accept that little, annoying fact.

Eren didn’t need to know that, though. He couldn’t because that would mean he won.

Why was it then that you couldn’t move or breathe? Why weren’t you recoiling back from him as if he were the pest you believed him to be? Your silence was deafening; you were sure it told him everything he needed to know.

Your brain was screaming at you, desperate to know what the hell you were doing, but your body—well, that was a completely different story. For once, the heat at the back of your neck was almost pleasant. It wasn’t fizzing with anger but burning a path down your spine. It kindled the crests of your cheeks with… excitement?

You gripped the neck of the guitar tighter.

Nothing about Eren had ever seemed so simple, but right then, he was. Simple and close and beautiful. No fuss, no antics, no bullshit. Just green eyes that melted from piercing to soft somewhere between when you picked up the guitar and now, you didn’t know when. Maybe that was him, beneath all his peacocking. The real Eren.

You went back to that night, when you first met. How could you not? You thought you had forgotten most of it (minus you-know-what), but you were flooded with the memory, the very same feeling eating away at you bit by bit.

It was different now; you weren’t rattling off sleazy flirts, and he wasn’t flexing, both literally and figuratively, but you could still feel the warmth of the firepit on your leg; how your suffocating dress and his hand on your thigh made your chest go tight. You could even remember how he tasted, the slurry of spirits on his breath. He’d taste different now, and you found yourself craving it without knowing it, yearning to discover what you had missed out on.

“Maybe you should get that,” Eren said, his voice all quiet now.

You blinked a few times, gathered yourself—blamed the concerning slip-up on your need for a vacation—but still had no clue as to what he was talking about. He must have read it on your face because you watched his eyes flit past you, to your buzzing phone. How long had it been doing that?

You swallowed down the thick feeling in your throat, only acknowledging Eren with a small nod before reaching for your phone behind you.

Mikasa had called; you just missed it. While you thought of a reason for her to call, you noticed she texted you a few times earlier. Big picture-wise, all of this was out of the ordinary but certainly not outlandish. But your opinion flipped, almost as quickly as your heart sank, when you saw a message from Jean—through Instagram. He wouldn’t have your phone number because, unlike Mikasa, if there was a reason for him to reach out to you, you couldn’t think of a single one.

You spent more time debating which to open first, the message from Mikasa or the one from Jean, than it would take to read them both. You went with Jean; it, understandably, piqued your interest more.

It was the wrong pick. The message only read, ‘Have you talked to Mikasa?’ Useless outside of sinking your heart even lower than before, like it had left your body entirely and splat on the floor.

Mikasa texted again. You swiped to open it.

You read her text chain backward, but out of convenience, you will recite them in chronological order:

Hey, is now a good time for me to call?

I need to tell you something important.

Insert missed call here.

Eren and Historia were out together last night. I thought you deserved to know, just in case it leaks.

Anger struck you like a shard of ice, leaving you frozen. You hadn’t flinched. You weren’t even sure if you had blinked yet. You just sat there, staring at your phone screen—Eren couldn’t see it from here. There was no need for a rash decision; you only needed a second to compose yourself before—

“What’s wrong?”

In any other circumstance, it would have been the polite question to raise. Two words, two syllables. That was all it took for you to snap.

Perhaps you should be grateful Eren was right beside you, within perfect strangling proximity. Screw your composure, it wasn’t the time for it. You might as well get the inevitable argument out of the way.

“What’s wrong?” you barked back. It teetered on a scoff or a laugh—something of the sort. “You’re seriously asking me what’s wrong like you don’t know. You were with Historia last night. People saw the two of you together.”

Eren got this brittle look on his face, his lips gone tight. Where you would expect him to lie, he only went silent. Somehow, that felt even worse. It was the coward’s way out.

You slithered out from beneath the strap and set the guitar on the cushion beside you. It didn’t need to become collateral damage. Unwilling to sit next to Eren for another second, you sprung to your feet and stood over him—looked down on him.

“One thing,” you seethed. “That was all I asked of you—”

Eren interrupted like the pedantic son of a bitch he was. “Technically, you asked two things of me.”

You continued as if it was nothing more than radio static. “You’re the reason I’m stuck in this mess, and you couldn’t be bothered to do this one tiny, little thing for me, could you?”

Then he laughed. He laughed!

“Because of me? You can’t be serious.” He sat himself a bit higher in his seat. He wouldn’t stand quite yet; he was trying to stay calmer, cooler, than you. It was another competition to him, but you could see through it. “I think we both know you were just as much a part of it as I was.”

You weren’t in the mood for splitting the blame, and you weren’t about to back down, either. He was the problem, not you. Right or not, you double-downed on your stance. You were emphatic about it, even as you paced around the room.

“If you weren’t you—if I had kissed anyone else—then it wouldn’t have mattered! I’m only here because I chose the worst possible person.”

Your logic was shaky at best, and Eren knew you knew it, too. You could tell by the way his eyes narrowed, trying to make sense of something nonsensical. He took a long breath, then stood from the couch. He didn’t come any closer, and he talked to you with his hands, palms to the floor. It reminded you of a hostage negotiator.

“Look, no one important saw. It’s not like we were out at an event. It was just a party.” He spoke like a hostage negotiator, too. But as he said the words, something must have clicked in his head. His demeanor changed, his voice sharp. “You said it yourself, you know. ‘Just don’t get caught with her in public.’”

You made this sound, one you couldn’t describe, through clenched teeth. It was some combination of a groan and a shriek. An exasperated, fed-up sound, with your hands curled like you wanted to wring him out.

You both knew that wasn’t how you meant it. What you were talking about was just the two of them, in the privacy of their own homes. Anyone at that party could have snapped a photo and sold the story for who knows how much cash. It wasn’t that unbelievable, considering the obvious.

You didn’t like your words being used against you. No, not just that, but twisted and manipulated. Rules bent but not broken, all so Eren could weasel his way out of it. That wouldn’t be happening.

There was nothing left to say that would be productive, but you weren’t finished with him yet. You still had this little ball of hate in you, festering, and you wanted to spew it at him.

“Are you even listening?” Eren asked.

He was across the room from you, over by the couch. You dragged your eyes back to him. When you did, you noticed that shirt again. It meant something to you this time; no longer thrown over the couch out of laziness but evidence of last night. Had Historia torn it off him in the throes of passion as they stumbled off to his bedroom? Or did they just fuck right there, where you were sitting minutes before?

“That’s why you look like shit then—you were up fucking Historia all night.” You weren’t even there, but you were trying to piece the night together as if you were. “Is she still here?”

Eren glared at you with this dead look behind his eyes. You could practically hear him say, ‘You can’t be serious.’ He didn’t need to utter a word.

Eren dropped back to the sofa, resting his elbows on his knees. “I don’t know why any of this matters. None of this is real.” He rubbed his hands over his eyes. “I want to be in this situation as much as you do. Believe me.”

Your jaw dropped. His lack of an answer said enough. But you wanted to hear him say it, so you repeated, “Is she still here?”

He didn’t lift his face from his hands, but it didn’t hide the mutter he gave under his breath. “You drive me fucking crazy.” He looked up, shook his head, and snorted like your question was ridiculous. “No, she’s not still here. She left last night.”

You sneered, “Fucked her, then kicked her out like the gentleman you are. That’ll really win her back, won’t it?”

Eren opened his mouth, presumably to defend himself, but he cut himself short. Then, to your surprise, his expression let up. And was that a smile you saw?

“Wait a minute.” He leaned in knowingly. “Are you jealous?”

You weren’t even going to entertain the thought. “No, I’m not fucking jealous!”

His eyebrow furrowed in delighted curiosity. “Really? Because it sort of seems like—”

“Stop trying to make this about you! I’m not jealous. I’m pissed off because you made a promise, then went and broke it. Now you can’t even apologize.”

How he spoke about this infuriated you. It was as if this was all just a big joke to him, like it was nothing to him—like you were nothing to him.

Eren sighed and stood up again. He took a few steps toward you before saying, “I’m sorry that I didn’t think a pinky promise actually meant something.” He looked pleased with himself, even crossed his arms. “Happy now?”

You wanted to yell back. Tell him how you would never go back on your word, even for someone as scummy as him. It wasn’t the pinky promise that mattered but the underlying mutual respect. Or lack thereof, you supposed. But to explain it to him would be futile. He wouldn’t understand, anyway. He wasn’t even worth the spent oxygen.

And there you had it: the Eren you remembered. The Eren you knew he was from the start.

“Well, you have your jacket back.” You barely had the voice to say it. You weren’t hurt. No, you wouldn’t let that happen. You just didn’t know what you were feeling, that was all. “There’s no reason for me to stay any longer.”

You wanted the last word. You at least deserved that, so you scampered out the door before Eren could say anything—before any tears could break your waterline.

Once you were back in your car, you were shaking in anger. It prickled through you like hot needles and made it hard to hold your phone still.

You indulged in social media as much as the next person, but you knew your limit, and you certainly knew where and what to avoid. Above all, you never read the comments on those exploitative, tabloid-y posts.

But you chose to throw yourself into the lion’s pit today. You needed to know what people were saying about Eren, about Historia—about you. You just had to.

Regarding the happy couple, there wasn’t anything new or egregious. You could sweat that off, at least. You only wished you could say the same about yourself.

You couldn’t even process what you were seeing because it only felt like a nightmare. All of these accounts, ones dedicated to Devil’s Paradise and Eren, his dumb face in profile picture after profile picture, relentlessly bashing you. It was all recent, too, within the day.

To think, this whole thing with Eren—the fake relationship, the fighting, the hurt—was to ‘save your image.’ To stop you from becoming the slut your team made you out to be. But you’d seen that word, amongst others, used against you more in the last few minutes than in your entire life. You saw enough to realize that none of this had been worth it.

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