𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈 : 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 *

Trigger Warnings: Blood, Sexual Content, & Panic Attack

PLEASE READ: Given the warnings, this chapter will be another heavy one. Not to bring my own experiences into the mix, as you are not here to read about my life, but some of the reader's reactions are reflections of my experiences living with complex PTSD. I understand that these topics are highly triggering, so please read at your own risk and take care of yourself.

If you need to take a break while reading, or you have to drop the fic, do it. At the end of the day, this is just fanfiction, and your mental health is not worth risking for a couple thousand words that are selfishly written as free therapy.

For those of you that do choose to read, if you feel I romanticized/glamorized mental health struggles in any way, shape, or form, please let me know so I can rewrite/unpublish. Although I am healing, I do not wish the feelings I experience and that some of you might feel on anyone, and the last thing I want to do is incorrectly depict how difficult these struggles are and how they affect almost, if not every, facet of a person's life.

I love you all, and sorry if this is overly intense. I would just feel awful if any of you are negatively affected after all the kindness you've shown to me and each other over the last 7 months. <3

. . .

It was strange–trading Mrs. Yeager's secretly-baked pie for a bow. To give up something so sweet in exchange for something so destructive... it felt sinful, but you played along anyway.

The first night with Kenny, the only task he challenged you with was shooting a candle off a table outside his shack. The killer gorged himself on the blueberry treat as you lost dozens of arrows in the dirt. Although your arms had strengthened over the last few weeks, you lacked the steadiness and fearlessness needed to stretch the string fully, and your trembling fingers kept catching the fletchings you released.

"It's not gonna snap, kid," the Ripper said with his mouth half-full. "Pull it to your ear, and get that elbow up higher. Keep your fingers out of the way, too, or you'll nick your tips."

You took the critiques and tried again. Although it boosted your shots' speed and accuracy, as many came close, all still whizzed past the target, never quite connecting with the flickering candle wax that grew shorter with each miss. They would stray to the left, fly too high, or fall just short, proving that you could never quite connect an arrowhead to a target.

Perhaps it was because your mind wandered off to how Sasha hunted with her father growing up and showed off her talents each time she returned with venison flanks for your father to cook up or raccoon pelts for him to fashion into hats. When you were little, she'd put apples on Connie's head, stand him in front of a tree, and shoot them off like it was the most effortless activity in the world–easier than sleeping. They'd charge a nickel to let people watch their risky trick, and they always made it so damn simple. Connie never shook with fear the way you trembled, and Sasha channeled smooth, seamless breaths each time she locked eyes with the fruit, which were so different from your shaking inhales.

Warm blood finally flowed from your fingertips from earlier mistakes, staining feathers red in the moonlight, but you kept at it. The warmth guided itself over your skin in a soft embrace.

"Hold your breath," a voice whispered in the wind. "Take a big one before you shoot, hold it, let go, and release the air once the arrow flies. It's easy, little one."

You grasped Sasha's seamless breaths from your memories and replaced your air with her own. If Sasha had been your teacher, she would have taught you faster. If she ever had the foresight to take you hunting, the Segreant would already be dead. If she were here, none of this would have happened. Sasha's body might not be there, but her voice still sang through your mind as you recreated her actions.

You released that breath-bound arrow, and it flew right over the candle. The little, taunting flame went out no more than a second before the metal implanted itself in the tree bark.

The Ripper sent out a low whistle. "Better, kid, but we're aiming for the candlestick, not the flame. Try again."

Again and again, Kenny relit the candle, as you could only come close enough to blow out the wick. You never did hit the candle wax that night, but you were so close. Your little failures must have been enough for the Ripper because he invited you back the next night with the promise of going raccoon hunting.

When you returned home and met with your dearest to tell him of your progress, Jean concerned himself more greatly with treating your painted fingers than your eager retellings. Before he left in the morning, your Frenchman advised you to hide your hands from Niccolo during the day. Should your guardian question your wounds, you were to blame it on some slipped fingers while stitching or accidentally slicing the skin with fabric shears. Niccolo never did ask, nor did Sunny when she came to visit you with two new books. She read alongside you well into the evening while you stitched more black thread over your crimson dress' bust.

You took several breaks to nap, seeing as your nightly activities weighed heavily on your lids. You dreamt of blood on your younger fingers each time you drifted off, and Sunny gently awoke you every time you jolted with unpleasantness. She left both books on your nightstand, saying you could add them to your library, and wished for sweet dreams to find you in the night.

But that night, after you slipped Niccolo his nightly tonic, you met the Ripper with more confidence. Fear did not shake your fingers as it did the night prior, and determination rolled through your veins in steady ocean tides. You came across three raccoons during your hunt, thanks to Kenny's sneaky food-baiting, and although you lost two from misplaced arrows and one due to the sound of your feet crunching in the brush, you felt good as you rode home. Accomplished, even.

Because it's easy to make promises, but it is much harder to keep them. You promised to end all this misery–to free Jean and Eren from their self-imposed hunt for justice–and you were upholding that oath. Each release of your bowstring brought you closer.

So much closer.

You tried to impress this on Jean when you recounted how the raccoons darted away, but he concerned himself regarding the blisters painting your ankles from hunting's hiking. He bandaged them up, as he bandaged your fingers, and instructed you to wear winter socks until the wounds disappeared.

Niccolo never saw the wounds, nor did Carla when she stopped by with soup and sandwiches. She made some hushed comments regarding her lost pie tin and when she'd see the metal again, but you brushed the topic off casually with your written responses. The mother did ask if you had tried speaking yet, and you lied with a simple shake of your head. What she didn't know wouldn't kill her.

And the third night, you returned to the Ripper's roost for a second try. He greeted you by shoving your new weapon into stronger hands and leading you out into the darkness with the only lights coming from the speckled navy sky and the hanging moon. The deeper you followed Kenny through a maze of oaks and poison ivy ropes, you found yourself in awe of how such a large man could move so silently. He stepped with ghostly softness, and his vision for life rivaled any God. He could spot a squirrel from the highest branches and pick out a rabbit a hundred feet away.

But even with his sight, you lacked the skill necessitated to stick an arrowhead in anything other than dirt and bark.

It would be different with a man, you reasoned. Men were big targets, and the Sergeant was as wide as he was tall. Such large prey would be easy to locate and extinguish with whatever weapon was at your disposal.

Before long, the scenery grew familiar, as you had traveled relatively far under night's heavy cloak. All the mosquitos that buzzed your ears all night seemed to blow off to oblivion, and before long, you found yourself entering the cedar grove. If you were already here, there was no harm in taking a few bits of cedar for the road.

A smudging might grant the sweet dreams Sunny had wished for you.

"Should we rest here for a moment?" you asked, and the Ripper responded with a slight nod.

You wasted no time wandering to your cedar tree, setting your bow in the clover, and picking off a few branches.

"What you doin', kid?" Kenny asks.

"Collecting cedar. I burn it through my house to–" but the snapping of twigs stopped your voice and sent you searching for the tree line.

Your entire body tensed as you prepared to find Jean waiting in the shadows, but it wasn't him.

Instead, you found a beautiful doe staring straight back at you. The slender creature stood firm on the edge of the clearing with a back tall enough to reach your waist and lashes long enough to tickle your heart. She remained calm at her end of paradise as you relaxed into yours. You kept still, holding your breath so as not to frighten her. The deer stepped out deeper into the groove before dipping her head. She happily grazed on the soft carpet that lined the floor, no longer caring that you occupied her space.

"Kid," the Ripper whispered loudly, "Quick–while its head's down. Take a shot."

The doe? But you weren't expecting to kill a deer. You expected to kill a raccoon.

Nonetheless, you dropped your trimmings and slowly bent down to recollect your weapon. Pulling an arrow from the quiver strung to your back, you set the end in the string.

The creature trusted you enough to leave her unharmed as she ate, yet you still prepared to kill her. You knew that people hunted to survive as you ate meat yourself, but a pang of guilt ran through you, unlike the sensation you felt shooting at candles and raccoons.

But you breathed as Sasha's instructions flooded your mind again, and you released the arrow all the same.

"Nice shot!" the Ripper congratulated you as you stood in horror.

There she was, the gentle deer that moved your lessons forward with her entrance, falling to the ground with an arrow jutting out from between her ribs. Her anguished cries were so gut-wrenching that you nearly covered your ears to block out Death's final calls, but shock kept your hands wrapped snugly around the bow and its string.

It will be over soon, you thought as you watched the poor creature writhe and leak blood.

But that was not the case. Being unburdened with your same hesitation, the Ripper slid the knife from his hip, closed the distance, and extended the instrument to you.

"You best slit the beast's throat. Otherwise, it'll suffer," he said.

You continued to watch the blood flow down the doe's stiff coat with each pump of her failing heart the closer you stepped with the knife in hand. A thick, black puddle pooled in the fur, and you knew if you dared to peer at your reflection in her blood, the stars would taint themselves in red hues for the rest of the night.

You reached for the sweet deer, brushing her warm back to give some final comfort. She looked up at you, her eyes glazed over yet still so full of trust and little whines still spilling from her lips. The sounds grew softer the longer you ran a hand over her back until she almost appeared at peace in her shallow breaths.

Animals die all the time, you reminded yourself. They are meant to be eaten if people wish to survive hot summers and cold winters alike. She could have been killed by a bear's claws or at the barrel's explosion, but she would die with a stranger petting her back.

But that sweet creature... its death felt unjustified. Unprovoked. Unfair.

"Hurry it up, kid. We ain't got all night." Your trembling hand pressed the knife to the doe's neck, but your arm would not move. You could not slice. Not with your eyes open. "Do it, kid," the Ripper ordered.

[TRIGGER WARNING: BLOOD]

Shutting your eyes tight enough to hear that familiar, self-made thunder, you blocked out the death rattle and ripped your hand back. You turned your head away, refusing to look at the corpse beneath you as wet warm splattered over your hand.

"Good job," Kenny congratulated you with a pat on the shoulder. "Let's take this beast back, and I'll show you how to skin it."

The whole journey back to the Ripper's shack, and while he showed you where to slide his knife to separate the fur from the flesh, you felt out of sorts. It was as though your mind had left your body again, and you were floating in the frigid afterlife, surrounded by pillars of light and lingering souls. Your physical hands still moved, your body shifted and pivoted, and you felt the warm set sensation sticking to your arms, but you weren't in control.

You were only watching a monster that looked exactly like you tear apart flesh.

When deer was split into pelts, cuts, and bones, your body and mind rejoined. The urge to cry was strong in your throat, but tears would not return the deer to life, so they were not worth crying.

"I'm gonna be eating good this week," Kenny joked, but he must have noticed your change in aura because he asked, "You alright, kid?"

"I will be," you answered with a faltering voice. "I... I feel... I've always been fond of animals, and they have always been fond of me. It was... much more painful than I thought it would be. Almost like..." but you never finished the thought.

"Well, you did good, kid. Handled killing better than Levi did, that's for sure. He cried the first time I made him shoot a turkey." The Ripper laughed at the memory, but his expression turned pensive when you failed to react. "You feel guilty, don't you?"

"I... I don't know... Maybe." You felt like you had killed a part of yourself. Was that guilt?

"You want some advice from an old man?"

"Why not."

"Well, a wise woman once told me... just about every feeling a person can feel is love wearing different coats. When you feel guilty, like how you're feeling right now, it's because you did something bad to somethin' you loved. Tonight, it was that deer. When you're sad, it's because you think you're gonna miss that deer you used to love. When you get angry, it might be because you regret killin' that deer you loved so much. When you're grieving, it's because you've got love for that deer, but you can't hand the love off anymore. Whether you're happy, nervous, or embarrassed, you can pin just about every single one to love in some way or another. Tonight, it's a deer. Tomorrow, it's your friend. The day after that, it's your husband. It's what you do with love and its coats that really matters. So, let me ask you somethin' else."

Kenny was speaking nonsense; he was rambling like any old man who hadn't had enough company in his life. This feeling you felt had nothing to do with love, but you indulged him and muttered a soft, "Go ahead."

"What do you feel when you think of killin' Gross?"

You thought about it for a time. You should feel hatred toward the man, but you couldn't even feel that anymore. Your thoughts were simple and plain, and nothing within you stirred, no matter what emotions you attempted to evoke. What feeling was that?

"I don't know... I feel... paralyzed. Disconnected. Lost."

"Ah," the Ripper sighed. "Sounds like fear. Fear is one of the bravest types of love a person can feel."

Was it fear? "Fear has nothing to do with love."

"Sure, it does. Because fear is just lovin' somethin' enough to worry about it gettin' hurt or dyin' or disappearin'. And when you're afraid for yourself, it just means you got some love hidden away for yourself. I'd say lovin' yourself is the hardest love to find in our world. Hell, I still haven't figured it out, and I've got decades on you."

"And who told you this?"

"My sister. She said it the month before she died from some brothel sickness she was fightin'... The last conversation I ever had with little Kuchel..."

The Ripper's stony eyes went soft in no more than a second after he finished, and the guilt that wore his features well accentuated how his love for his sister could never be questioned. He wore that loving coat with unfashionable grief.

"I'm sorry for your loss," you whispered.

Then he answered, "Thanks, kid. I think you're the second person in my whole life to tell me that."

His little confession hung like a body in the gallows–swaying with every change of breeze–still yet so stiff in the wind.

"What if you're afraid of yourself?" you asked.

"I know that one well... It means you loved the person you used to be, and you're afraid you'll never be that person again." Kenny paused to search for a cigar and trim its edge. He lit the tip in a candle, let it burn for a moment, then took a long drag. With smoke spewing from his lips, he asked, "So, how hell-bent are you on doin' this? You say the word and give me an extra hundred, and I can make your problem go away all on my own. That way, you can keep your pretty little hands clean."

"If fear is an extension of self-love, don't I owe it to myself to conquer my fears for my own sake?"

"Maybe, if that's what you really want. I just wanted to give you an option. You're a good kid. I think... Well, I'd feel sorry if you ended up makin' a mistake and dyin'... But... Maybe it's the suit being too big for ya, or that patch you put on, but you remind me of my nephew sometimes... I'd feel even worse if you ended up like me."

"It'll be different when it's him. It'll be easy, so you won't have to worry about a mistake. I told you that I love animals, but I hold no love for that man."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure I don't love him."

Kenny laughed. "Well, shit, I figured that much. We don't kill the people we love. Well... we might, but never with knives. We kill them with words. What I mean is, are you sure it'll be different? Take it from me, kid. Killin' is killin'. Blood looks the same no matter who or what it's leakin' from. It's red and sticky and—"

"I'm sure."

The Ripper studied your face for any crack in your resolve. "Well, in that case, I guess it's time for your next lesson. Tomorrow night, you ain't comin' back here, you hear? I want you to head down to the brothel and ask the ladies there what they know about your mark. Start buildin' some knowledge. Can you do that?"

"What good will that do?"

"Ladies of the Eve' get to know people much more intimately than you and I ever will, and they hear all the secrets our ears won't pick up. How do you think my sister got so wise with her girly little quotes on love? She understood people, and girls like her will help half-girls like you understand."

"What do I even ask them?"

"All sorts of things," Kenny said. "What he does with his time, what vices he indulges in, what he eats for breakfasts, which hand he wipes his ass with... It's all fair game."

And where will you be?"

"Figurin' out where your Sergeant rests his head each night. I'll start keepin' an eye on him tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, you'll join me. We'll stake out his house, watch his patterns, and make a plan. I'd like a month to nail down his movements, but we'll take the two weeks you paid me for."

You went on your way not long after that, head still spinning from tonight's conversation. You tried to extract some meaning–to understand what murdering a gentle deer had to do with love and what that love had to do with killing the Sergeant. Would it feel different if it was a raccoon, a deer, or a man? Was a couple of weeks enough time to prepare you for such a grizzly affair? Even as you were walking to that distant cabin you had come to love so dearly, you didn't understand.

When you stepped in the door, hoping to find your lover excited to embrace you, you found Jean waiting anxiously at the foot of his bed. He only managed to beat out three more anxious thumps of his heel crashing into the wood before he noticed your arrival. His pretty yet exhausted face fell as soon as he saw your hands. He stood and rushed before you so quickly that you barely noticed he even moved.

"What happened?" he asked, taking your hands in his own. Only then did you remember you were covered from fingers to forearms with blood.

"I skinned a deer," you mumbled back. "I killed it."

A normal person would cry under these circumstances, but you remained unmoved. The most you felt was a slight quiver in your lip, but beyond that, there was nothing. The carefree, smiling part that might never resurface from the depths of your drowning, but you weren't afraid that she was gone. Your heart was empty, drained of its loving red sea.

Despite your unnerving reaction, Jean wrapped himself around you and buried your ear so close to his heart that every thump resonated deep within you. He brushed his hand along your spine and moved upward to cradle your head and lock your hair in his fingers. He did every physical thing he could possibly manage to beat life into your crumbled heart, but he might as well have done nothing at all.

As far as you were concerned, there was nothing to rebuild.

You weren't in the cabin. You didn't know where you went, but you weren't there. You were somewhere else, where you could feel Jean, but he couldn't touch you. You didn't want to speak or even breathe. You just wanted to fall asleep and wake up next year just in time to see the snow melt off winter's back.

"Y/n," Jean whispered, "We have to clean you up."

You shook your head against his shirt.

"We have to. Niccolo cannot see you like this. You need to... you need to undress."

When you failed to move but made no fight to stop him, Jean took the liberty of unbuttoning your coat. He moved on to your undershirt and pants until the only fabrics hiding your shame were your thin camisole and drawers. Although you were dressed in all white, you no longer kept the same purity as your threads. Your hands had been tainted–hands that were once used to create now were destructive forces you had little control over.

With your men's clothes removed, Jean led you outside to the lake, one of those foreign, bloodstained hands clasped with his familiar, clean one. He waded you out deep until water kissed your ribs in smooth ripples, and he rinsed away all the red with gentle caresses; the kind that you had once given to others in need of reassurance. But even with all the sticky paint swiped from your skin, you felt so unclean. Those same hands were pulled in two different directions: one toward heaven and the other toward hell, but your body remained trapped in between.

Maybe, if you submerged yourself in the lake, the cold water would cleanse the images of blood from your mind. If you allowed the waves to carry you off, you would float somewhere far enough where all of this would be a distant memory. You should stay in this lake for the rest of your life and allow Mother Nature to work you over for your crimes against another creature.

You had been so resolute in your decision to kill the Sergeant before. Where had that bravery run off to, and how far did you have to chase it in order to bring it back? Would you run into hell with no chance of returning if it meant heaven was an unattainable destination and life on earth was over?

"What will you do tomorrow? Will you hunt again? Will bathing you become my new favorite hobby?" Jean tried to joke just like Kenny, but your shoulders were too heavy to unburden.

"No," you mumbled with a voice so devoid of inflection it was little more than a gust of wind. "I'm going to the brothel."

"As in the pleasure house? For what?"

"To ask the women what they know. Those women might hear things my ears can't pick up."

"You are not going to town alone."

"You're right. I won't. I'll bring Voltaire as I do every night."

"No," Jean said as he shook his head. "A brothel is crawling with ill-intentioned men. I will come with you. For protection."

A tired laugh finally left your lips, and you felt something light run through your dirtied veins. You were back in your body for that brief second, touching the cold water on tired skin. Because when you put your current predicament in perspective, it seemed like the start of such a funny joke.

A young woman, covered in deer's blood and conspiring to commit murder, is accompanied by her sweetheart into a brothel... If only you could learn the punchline early. It may be better not to know.

"Trying to take a peek at some real women?" you asked once the defeated giggle fell flat on your audience of one.

"I am seeing plenty of the only woman I care to see as we speak." Jean reached for your jaw with his pruned hands and ran a thumb over dry skin. "But I care for her safety more than any inch of her skin."

Neither bravery nor humor would not act as your life's blood in the upcoming journey for justice. You realized that as your lover returned to his washings and diligently removed every stubborn stain sticking to your skin. You would survive only by sipping on the hope that Jean would bathe you in his consideration for the rest of your life once everything was over.

Maybe then you'd regain the body stolen by tragedy and blood. Only then would it be enough.

Once Jean finally finished, bringing you back into his single room and offering the shirt off his back, so you didn't have to sleep in wet clothes, you said, "If I'm going to let you come, you'll have to bring the money."

"Will you be cheap?"

"That's not for me to decide. That'll fall on the Madame."

. . .

It was just before midnight when you found yourself outside the old building just outside of town. The scarlet curtains accented the lit-up glass planes, and the unmistakable scent of desire poured from the building's every orifice. You heard moans and giggles float through the open windows, and even a few spanks sailed through the air. You had read about such acts, but to hear them, see them, smell them, even... you weren't sure you had sufficiently prepared.

You wondered if you had entered on a different night if it would have felt different. Would your mouth have gone dry, or would a twisting overtake your stomach until discomfort tore every muscle in your thighs and abdomen? Would you have felt something? Maybe it was better not to feel anything. Feelings would only serve as an unnecessary distraction.

"Should we knock?" Jean asked from behind, and his voice somehow remained stable.

"I don't think many knock before entering a brothel."

"But should we?"

You pushed open the front door, and the stench of cigars and wine welcomed you before any soul. The air hazed and obscured the many candles that lined the red walls and withered tables throughout the house.

You made your first mistake by looking into the parlor. There, a woman drenched herself on a man's lap as she whispered sweet secrets into his ear. Your eyes locked with hers, and the sultry smoke that darkened her pupils sent tingles through your entire spine. Her full, rouged lips curled in such a pleasant, demure invitation that beckoned for you to take a few steps in her direction.

You wanted to feel the comfort she provided that man. You were starved for it, even though Jean had done more than enough to comfort you in your lowest points. You selfishly wanted any and all comfort to channel through you in the hope that your heart would beat warm blood again.

"Well, well, well, it must be my lucky day!" The unmistakable voice called, breaking your trance.

Miss Klarissa appeared at the top of the red-carpeted stairs in scarlet robes that narrowly hid her heavenly body from view. When she handed off her most recent alterations, you had stitched a rip in that robe. As she floated down the steps and drifted past you, you searched for the stitch placed in the right arm months ago. The fabric held firm, as did the additional embellishments you added to both arms to hide the tear. A slight swell of pride would have tugged on your cheeks on a typical day, but today, you felt nothing. You felt nothing even as the Madame stole Jean's hands into her own and gave him her prettiest smile.

No jealousy or anxiety—just emptiness.

"My sweet Frenchie has finally graced us with his presence. To say I'm excited is an understatement," she flirted.

"Madame," Jean greeted stiffly and politely reclaimed his hands as quickly as the Madame stole them. "I hope the night is treating you well."

"It is now that you are here, my dear. Come to cleanse yourself of your purity, I see? I knew you'd come eventually. They always come eventually. Maybe you're looking for a woman with plenty of good experience under her skirts. And you've even brought a friend with you."

Miss Klarissa shot you a glance and looked away but shifted back to study your face more closely on the second pass.

She must be confused with the arrival of an unfamiliar patron, you thought. That must be it.

You deepened your voice to feign emotion and manliness as best as possible without sounding ridiculous, "That's precisely who I'm looking for."

Miss Klarissa scrutinized you further, her inquisitive eyes no longer holding any coquettish softness, but her expression clicked back into place after a moment.

"You know what? I think I have the perfect girl for you, sir. Let me send for her." The Madame disappeared up the stairs, her fabulous robe dragging behind her, only to reappear with a girl barely big enough to lift a half-full water pail. "Mister, this is my dearest girl, Miss Mina. I do hope you'll be gentle with her. She's a delicate thing, but a man like you is sure to be kind."

This girl was a frail, waify thing, with inky, black hair neatly braided on either side of her head with sun-bleached, pink ribbons. Her clothes were so ill-fitting that more creases formed the harder she shook, and she was scarcely old enough to be called a woman. What secrets could she possibly hold that could be of any use? 

"Madame, I am looking for a woman with more–"

"Miss Mina is almost as pure as a freshly christened babe... almost. And a hard worker, too. I'm sure she'll have more than enough knowledge to... assist you in your endeavors." Miss Klarrisa stressed. "Go upstairs. The second bedroom on the left is open, is it not, Mina?"

"It... It is," the girl nearly stuttered, and the fear that shook her sent guilt so intensely through your stiff ribs.

"What about you, Frenchie?" the Madam asked. "Care to spend the night with me? I'm sure we could find all sorts of things to debate... If I look better in red, blue, or nothing at all."

Jean shot you a sharp glance, and you subtly returned it before redirecting his attention back to Miss Klarissa. "Not tonight. I... made plans on joining my friend," Jean answered.

"Joining? That doesn't seem fair to Miss Mina. To share intimacies is sacred and should only involve the two it concerns. To add a third would only bring more discomfort to an already painful experience."

"I have no plans to join," Jean said, his eyes darting at you again. "I... I prefer to watch."

"Watch? You have no plans to..." Miss Klarissa's eyes narrowed as she searched for the right word. "Intervene?"

"No, Madame."

The Madame looked at you. "And you're alright with this? He is not... pressuring you into being included, is he?"

Something about her tone sent lightning through your barren muscles. You couldn't explain the sensation, but her studying and carefully chosen speech made you feel... seen.

"I am," you replied.

"Very well. We'll discuss payment when you're finished. Take the room as long as you need." And the Madame shooed you and your lover up the stairs behind the shivering girl and into that second bedroom on the left.

You always thought the payment was taken upfront when buying a lady's affection for the evening. You had seen enough transactions in the tavern and the alleys to expect as much. But, perhaps, when in the brothel itself, it was different. It was not as though you could run out before payment was received.

You entered the room and stepped a few paces inside while Miss Mina locked the door behind you. The walls flickered with green, floral wallpaper, the bed was neatly made with well-worn linens, and several mirrors reflected candlelight in many directions. The furniture needed refinishing and had hairbrushes, perfume vials, and rags littering their scuffed tops. The sinful sounds from other bedrooms phased through the walls and open windows. Minus the countless mirrors and the endless moans, the room was not that dissimilar from your own. It was just another girl's room. If the fates had been any different, it could very well have become your room.

"Mina?" you called, no longer having the energy to fake a deeper voice. "Why don't you come and sit with me on the bed? We can... talk."

"Talk?" she asked shakily.

"Just talk. I have some questions."

"Questions?"

"Yes, questions." You took a seat on the bed's edge and patted a place for her to join. "Please, sit."

Mina slowly moved beside you, sniffed, and trembled at each of your movements. You eyed Jean, who had pressed his back against the wall and stared at the ceiling. His disinterested expression left you feeling abandoned when you could have used some guidance.

He had given you plenty of good advice, and you wished he could give you some now, but you would act on your own. First things first, you intended to treat this girl like a person like she deserved, not some piece of meat to be used.

"Miss Mina... how old are you?" you asked first.

"Nineteen."

"Nineteen... and how long have you been employed here?"

"May of this year."

"And how did you end up here? I've lived in this my whole life, and this is the first time I've heard of you."

"I... I shouldn't say."

"Any secrets you share tonight are safe with me, I can assure you."

"Miss Klarissa advised me to keep my past to myself and not to share it with clients. We... we should just get things over with."

The wet-eyed girl pawed at her garments, but you reached for her trembling hands before she could unclasp a single button. She didn't trust you with her life; it was not like you could blame her. In her mind, you were a strange, unfeeling man soliciting sex. It might not have been wise, but you tore off the hat and eyepatch of your usual disguise and faced her woman-to-woman.

"I'm not here for that, Miss Mina."

"You're... You're a girl?" she sniveled out.

"I am. That's why I'm here to talk."

"Why are you wearing a suit? And an eye patch?"

"I needed a disguise."

"So, you aren't... But I thought... Klarissa said... Oh, thank heavens!" And the poor girl burst into tears on the spot, and you envied her. "I'm not a whore! I attend to the girls that live here whenever a man is too rough with them, or they need a shoulder to cry on, and I wash all the sheets and clothes, do all the dustings, and cook all the food!"

You watched the girl cry for a moment, then looked to Jean for guidance in the proceedings. This time, he paid attention and sent you a nod, silently urging you to comfort the poor girl you had unwittingly terrified. You placed an uncomfortable hand on Mina's shoulder, and she threw herself into your chest as she cried even harder. You should have been more concerned with her feelings, but your mind moved miles in a minute. She was not a prostitute, but many of the other girls sought her comfort and maybe even confided in her. Maybe she was exactly the girl you needed.

"Miss Klarissa has always been so kind and assured me I had more time before I needed to sleep with someone, but I thought she intended to sell me tonight!" Miss Mina sobbed into your shirt. "I was so scared. I thought I had more time."

"It's alright," you comforted her. "You're alright."

"I just never thought my life would end up like this!" she rambled between sniffles. "I just... I fell in love with a man and thought he loved me, too. I slept with him, and when my father found out what we did, he tossed me from the house, and my lover refused to take me in! He left me with nothing, and I had nowhere else to go! Miss Klarissa was the only one to treat me with any kindness, and I thought... I thought she was going to finally sell me off!"

"It's alright," you repeated as you rubbed her back.

"I just want to go home!"

"I understand. Better than you know." And that time, you spoke with truer sincerity. "But Mina, I need your help."

The girl pulled away, her nose dripping with snot and pretty cheeks as red as a rose. "My help? What good am I?" She peered at Jean. "Do... Do you want my help in pleasing your husband? I'm hardly the person for that."

"Husband? He isn't..." You snuck a similar peek at your companion, whose once unchanged expression was now red with embarrassment. "No, that's not why I'm here. I should introduce myself. My name is Y/n, and—"

"Y/n?" Mina cut you off, her shoulders no longer shaking. "You're the girl that sews our garments, aren't you? And the one that was attacked. One of the other girls said... she heard about your assault from one of the lawmen. Are you alright?"

"I have the strength to make it here, so I'd assume so."

"That's good," Mina sighs. "Some girls were worried that they'd meet a similar fate. It might put their minds at ease to know you're better. It was a terrible thing... One of the girls came crying to me the morning after it happened. She must have seen you and told me how much blood there was and how panicked everyone turned. Just awful what happened."

Blood was the last thing you wanted in your mind.

"I'd rather not discuss that if you don't mind. I'm here for some information. Have the other ladies spoken of a man named Richard Gross?"

"Gross? Gross..." Mina glazed over in thought. "Gross... he visits here... nearly every Friday. He comes when his wife is sleeping but leaves somewhat early so his wife doesn't pester him. He..." and her voice lowered to a whisper. "He pays the ladies to paddle him before sex."

You didn't need to know that. "...Does he now?"

"He does."

"And... what else is there worth knowing about him?"

"Well... Sometimes he pays for peeks in the tavern on Saturdays when he drinks with his friends. Sometimes he steals gropes without paying when he's been over-served. The girls don't care for him very much. They say he's cheaper than the liquor he drinks."

"So he's a drinker, then? Does he often go to the tavern that day?"

Mina knitted her brows. "I believe so. I regularly hear complaints on Sunday mornings over breakfast, so... I assume he's there often enough."

"Interesting... tell me more."

Mina spoke, and you listened, adding nods at the appropriate moments and committing all the seemingly useless details to memory. She would run off on flustered tangents, but you never stopped her in the hour she talked. Even when the conversation drifted to her own life, before she existed in this place, you let her run with her words.

But, when nothing was left to gather, and the conversation went cold, you softly smiled and offered your gratitude for her assistance. She threw her arms around you, hugging you like her closest friend with a toothy grin you wouldn't have expected, given your earlier interaction. She was just a girl in challenging circumstances and forced to make the best of a terrible situation. It sounded familiar. It made some small part of you buried deep under mountains of iciness come alive again.

"Mina?" You prepared your final question. "Have you ever thought about taking up sewing?"

"Sewing?"

"Yes, sewing. I was my father's apprentice, and he taught me well. Would you be interested in learning?"

"Me? I mean... My mother taught me how to stitch little rips together, but I'm a novice. I always prick my fingers, and my lines are never even, and you can always see the thread, and my patches only hold for a month or two before they pop..." and she ran out of excuses.

"If you know the basics, I could teach you the rest. You could make a decent income."

"But what about you? Wouldn't I take your clients? I'd feel awful if I took money from you!"

"Some people choose not to work with me but still need pants hemmed or holes fixed. You can take up that part of the market. A woman with a trade is a powerful creature." A smile found your lips. "We could even start our own sewers union.

Mina matched your expression. "Maybe... Maybe I will. Thank you, Miss Y/n. It's been a pleasure talking with you."

"Likewise. You can go and shut the door behind you. We have some things to discuss before we leave."

Mina began to walk out with a spring in her step, but as she passed Jean, she ran over to him and gave him a similar, but much more awkward, embrace before skipping out of the room. She was nineteen, just like you, but her steps were so much lighter despite the bleakness of her situation. You were not jealous of her because she touched your lover—you trusted him enough to know he would not stray. You were jealous that she had the strength to skip despite her life. But jealousy was better than feeling nothing at all.

The door clicked behind her, and you leaned your head back, rolling it left to right until a few cracks met your ears. Shutting your eyes, you huffed a deep sigh before gazing at your pink-cheeked artist.

"How often do you think she washes the sheets?" you asked him.

"...Not often enough."

You threw your back onto the mattress anyway and stretched your tired spine. The bed was surprisingly comfortable despite being well broken in from whatever passion it had seen in its lifetime. Those same passions resonated through the thin walls in loud wails, and you couldn't help but listen in. Did lovemaking evoke that much emotion? At points, it almost sounded like someone was being stabbed with how sharply the moans pierced your drums. Sex sounded painful–almost like death. Was it really something to be craved if the noises were so dreadful? Perhaps death was better than nothing at all.

But if it weren't for the gentle rise and fall of the mattress, you would have gotten deaf in the sound.

You cracked your eyes open to find Jean beside you. He sat with his strong palms planted firmly behind his back and into the blankets. His skin still held that salmon hue as he stared at the wallpaper; he appeared much more embarrassed by the sinful setting than you.

"Do you think she's acting?" you mumbled to him.

"Miss Mina? She seemed–"

"No–the woman screaming. It sounds like she's dying."

Jean grew redder at your question. "Oh... Well, there is a... A phrase in French. La petite mort... It translates to 'the little death.' And... When... When a person reaches... They say that... When they are close to..."

"Close to climax?" you asked, and Jean turned impossibly red from how easily the word spilled from your tongue. Redder than roses; redder than a sunset; redder than fire. "We can call it wrestling if it makes you more comfortable."

You laughed lightly, and the puff from your nose blew away some of Jean's staining. A smile threatened to brighten his features, and you were glad to see the tenseness leave him. If you were going to be almost entirely devoid of feelings, at least he could enjoy a few.

One of you should live a normal life, even if only for minutes at a time.

"But I think that's a terrible name for what's supposed to be a lovely experience," you spoke again. "Le putite more..."

"La petite mort," Jean corrected. "If you are going to criticize a language, you should at least pronounce it correctly."

"And you can't even say the word 'climax' without nearly passing out."

You tugged on the back of his shirt, forcing your lover to fall into the sheets beside you. You may not feel much, but that slight motion made you feel something. It was a gentle burning in your throat, and it grew stronger the deeper you gazed into Jean's softening, honeyed irises.

"How do you say it, then?" your question cloaked in a whisper. "'The little death?'"

"La petite mort," he answered through a thick fog of invisible haze. 

You shifted closer and tried repeating after him, "La petite more."

"So close," he said with a slight smirk. "The 't' in mort... it should live more in the throat."

"There's a 't?' Where?"

"At the end." And Jean inched closer until you felt his heat on your nose. "Try again."

"La petite moreh," you teased.

"Again. Mort. In the throat this time."

"Mort," and when you said it that last time, you sounded just like him.

Jean's hand found your cheek, and his rough thumb traced the same line twice. "Parfait. C'est ma fille."

For a brief moment, as you whispered about death over and over, you forgot why you had even gone to the brothel. You forgot you had almost died, that deer had died, and that the Sergeant was next to die. For a brief moment, you were just a nineteen-year-old girl hiding in a locked room, lying beside her once-intolerable guest. For a brief moment, you wanted to discover whether that woman was acting or if those noises were genuine. You wanted to feel that little death for yourself at the hands of someone you loved.

But that brief moment was fleeting, and any enjoyment you might have had that night disappeared into that invisible haze so quickly that its ghost only lingered on the traced lines of your cheek. You had things to do; plans to make; people to watch. You would have loved to stay in that bed for the rest of your life–to forget until time no longer ticked–but that wasn't the world you lived in anymore. Time would turn forever, and delaying the inevitable was selfish.

"We should get going," you told him as you stood up from the mattress. Jean sat up but stayed on the bed. "If we stay too long, we'll never want to leave."

"What if we never did? We could busy ourselves with French lessons until that pretty tongue of yours can make every sound known to man. With an accent like yours, it could take years. Decades, if we are lucky. And when we finish that, we could move on to German, or you could teach me a few secrets of your own. Would that be so bad?"

That sounded lovely, didn't it? God, how you wished to stay there forever, and you knew if you turned around to see his perfect body in those imperfect sheets, that locked door wouldn't open by your hand. Someone would have to pry you out as you flailed and begged for more time.

So you didn't turn back as you refixed your discarded disguise. "It would. Now, let's go. The sooner you pay, the sooner I can sleep."

You unlocked the door and slipped out quickly in search of Miss Klarissa. You barely made a noise with each hollow step down the stairs, whereas Jean was far less quiet. You both found the Madame waiting expectantly at the entrance where she had greeted you. She wore a rouged smirk so finely on her full lips, and her flowing hair all but hid the satisfaction that pulled her cheeks.

"Get what you came here for?" she asked.

"We did," you confirmed. "How much for the hour?"

The Madame didn't say a number like you expected. Instead, she strode up to you, placed her hands on your arms, and brought you so close to her mouth that she practically kissed the lobe. Her perfume swallowed your senses and loosened your tense shoulders.

"How about this?" she whispered so only you would hear. "When you feel better, I'll drop off a few garments for you to stitch up, and you don't charge me. Sounds fair... Doesn't it, Y/n?"

Miss Klarissa pulled away with a knowing smile, and you blinked at her like a fool.

So, she saw right through you after all? If you could feel more, you would have been surprised.

. . .

After the night in the brothel, there was no more room for forgetting. You waited in the woods behind the Sergeant's house from eleven until four, watching his every move. On the weekdays, Gross made a habit of groggily shuffling down to his outhouse in the middle of the night. He would take an unusual amount of time to relieve himself, nearly a half-hour, and then would slink back inside and stay there until you had to leave.

On Friday, he snuck off, with caution padding his sneaking, and returned home with a bit of a spring in his step. He waddled to the back to relieve himself in the outhouse for another uncomfortably-long time and then was back out again. No candles brought life to the dead house when he disappeared inside. It was an incredibly dull affair.

On Saturday, the Sergeant sauntered from his house and set off to drink himself into an early grave. He stumbled up his porch, nearly passing out on the wood, before fumbling with his keys and forcing his way inside. Even from the secluded plot of lumber, you heard the arguing that spilled from the house with his return. Candled silhouettes danced in the mirror, but their movement was far from pleasant, and you felt helpless the longer you watched the shadows fight.

You wondered if the wife had slept through his infidelity or if she was just more inclined to fight her husband's wasteful spending when it came to drinks than with affairs. Perhaps she was glad the brothel girls took a marital responsibility off her plate for an evening. There was no proper way of knowing unless you went inside to ask her.

Perhaps, when this was over, she would toast to your health in secret, even if she would never know you were the one hammering his casket.

Sunday was when things became interesting. When Gross left in the night, he left with a rifle strapped to his back. He went out to catch another one of those deer that supposedly 'raked its antlers over his chest.' He was fortunate to have such a convincing lie to the townsfolk, but that lie would not protect him from you, and you vowed to seek additional vengeance for the bloodied creatures he carried home when his hunt was over.

Kenny made it clear that same night that Sunday would never be an option for your own hunt, and you agreed.

You watched the weekdays again, in all their monotonous normalcy, until the calendar hit Thursday. Given everything you learned from Mina and everything you saw, Kenny determined that Saturday was your safest move for a successful murder and that Friday should be used for you to get as much sleep as possible.

He didn't say it out loud, but you knew it was that old man's way of telling you that you looked God-awful. All your stalkings left you exhausted during the night, and all your nightmares kept you awake during the day. Insomnia showed in your eyes as the bags grew disgustingly puffy. You survived on no more than three hours of sleep, and not a single one was peaceful or deep. But the hardest part was not the lack of sleep, although it was awful, nor was it the dreadful reality of your situation becoming stronger while the rest of your emotions evaporated. The hardest part was that late nights kept you from seeing Jean.

Honestly, you couldn't understand why he still came to the lake each night, knowing that the two of you would only share a few words before the sun split the sky-from-earth and heart-from-hand without the uncontrollable indifference, but he was always there.

As you returned, he would be preparing himself to make the trek home. Five minutes here and there was hardly enough to keep you alive. If you had known you would barely see him, you would have spent more time behind that locked brothel door until someone dragged you both out.

So, as you stood in your sewing room, staring at yourself in the mirror, you wondered if you were over-exaggerating the significance of a Friday.

You were expected to sleep the night away, but you had tried on half of your wardrobe while Niccolo snored in the next room over. You tossed away your jewel-toned dresses as you felt the accentuated the scar marring your temple. A pile of pastels littered the floor, too, because you remembered a particular comment from months ago regarding how pastels made you look sickly. With sunken eyes as disgusting as yours, you needed no additional assistance when it came to looking ill.

Surely, Jean wouldn't care what you wore. He would just be happy to see you after spending so many nights apart, but you cared. For all you knew, everything could change tomorrow. If things went awry, this seemingly inconsequential Thursday might be the last time either of you ever saw each other. You wanted the final image to be beautiful, even if your sweaty, disfigured skin disagreed with the notion.

You could wear your red dress–the one you had been toiling away at with black lace for weeks, but it was still so unfinished. There were still so many little black roses you wanted to stitch into that crimson grove.

They may never blossom.

You pushed the darker thoughts away as you pushed through more clothes. Pinks, yellows, reds, greens... Green was a nice color on its own. Green reminded you of the garden or the cedar grove. It was calming and clean. But when you held the garment up to your skin, it brought out ugliness and painted you into a troll.

If no colors would do, you could always wear black. Black was slimming and unassuming, but it was also so bleak. There was the white of your nightgowns, but Jean had seen those frocks rotated too often for them to be special. You needed to look special on your last night.

Last night. When had you become so sure you would die?

Giving up, you stole back the forest green dress with its golden-leafy embellishments that waited on the top of your pile and stepped out of sight of the mirror. Your reflection disgusted you enough; perhaps that was what tainted all your pretty dresses, not their colors.

You tiptoed through the house with your usual softness and breathed in the summer air as you stepped out the kitchen door. Stars glittered as they did almost every night, and the moon only reflected half its face onto the distant waves of the lake.

The moon was bright, hiding her scars from view whenever the sun saw fit to protect her with shadows. The moon did not need to worry about what colors she wore, as she only had a handful of options, and they were never her choice. The sun chose for her. She could reflect beautiful light and pull oceans with her sometimes invisible strength.

I wish I could come back as the moon, your exhausted mind thought as you snuck into the empty cabin.

You had to light your own candles, straighten your own blankets, and fluff your own pillows in preparation for your sun's arrival. You caught sight of the dead flowers wilting in the breakfast table's dirty vase, and you didn't have the sun's power to regrow new ones in their place. You had to take your weak legs and dump the molded cuttings onto the porch, refill the glass with well water, and break the green stems of tiger lilies by hand in your garden to bring life to anything. And by bringing life to that cabin, you stole life from the ground.

Life would've been better if you were the moon.

But you were not the moon.

You had to be seen whether you wore suits or dresses, you had to choose every color you wore, and you had to wait alone in plain sheets instead of surrounded by millions of glowing stars or enjoying the brief company of the sun in the early morning when both astral forces shared one sky. Most of all, you had no great power to pull oceans hidden under your skirts. You could have spent all night wishing you were the moon instead of sleeping. The only commonality you shared with the moon was your newfound absence of warmth, and that was not something to be proud of.

As you waited in Jean's bed, staring at the millions of ridges on the wooden roof, you reasoned that dreaming of being something else was a better way to waste time.

But you didn't need to waste time long because the cabin door swung open with your sun yawning behind it. His clothes were his usual simple ones, and his hair was messy with a lack of preparation. Suddenly, you wished you had taken the moon's lead and thrown on a nightgown.

Jean blinked a few times once his yawn drifted off, and he shut the door behind him. He gave your sprawled-out figure on his sheets a strange look.

"You... You are here? So early?" he asked. "And in a dress?"

"I'm supposed to take tonight to sleep," you explained awkwardly.

"In a dress?"

God, you felt stupid. Why didn't you put on the silly nightgown?

"I can take it off. I'm wearing my usual dressings underneath. I just... I thought I should wear something nice. Something pretty."

Jean's sleepy eyes warmed under the candles' glow with each step he took toward the bed. He sat beside you and swiped his fingers over the forest green until his hands took root in your fabric.

"Have I ever told you that green is my favorite color?" he asked.

"It is?"

"It is. I am glad to see it favors you so well. You look lovely."

"I do?"

"You do. You always look lovely."

Maybe you had nothing in common with the moon after all because feelings stirred in you again. A genuine smile pulled your lips apart until your teeth hit the open air. Something funny waited on your tongue, anxious to free itself, so you let it loose.

"Except for when I wear pastels. Didn't you say they make me look sickly?" Jean's sweetness fell instantly at your comment, and you laughed. You really laughed. "I'm only playing. Nothing but a harmless joke."

"So you are back to joking?"

"For tonight."

"For tonight," he repeated. "So you need to sleep. Does that mean tomorrow... Tomorrow is the day, is it not?" You nodded, but you didn't want to think about Saturday. You wanted to think about Friday. "We should sleep, then. You will need all your energy–"

You placed a hand on his lips to stop him. "I'm not ready to sleep. It's not even midnight. We should enjoy tonight for what it is. We could do all sorts of things. You can teach me some French, play card games, drink wine and talk, or... something else. Whatever we like." And you removed your fingers when you finished.

"But you should sleep."

"We should do many things in life, but I have all night and all tomorrow to sleep. We should use our time more wisely. I think we've wasted enough time sleeping."

And, in your pretty green dress and his plain clothes, you did all sorts of things. You learned the rules of Poker and even won a few hands. You emptied the wine bottle that went untouched the day you brought Jean to the cedar grove for the second time. You learned to say all sorts of curses in French, even though your pronunciation was awful. You had a wonderful few hours doing ordinary things that people did with their most cherished people.

The moon could never claim to do all those things, could she? The moon could only touch the sun when their orbits were in perfect alignment, but you and your lover's lips could eclipse wherever you both pleased, whether life was perfect or not. But tonight, your alignment was as close to perfection as you could ever hope to be.

[TRIGGER WARNING: SEXUAL CONTENT]

And with stinging cheeks and unsteady vision, you did just that between shared fits of laughter. Your impassioned, starving kisses burned far hotter than any blazing rays in August. You knocked over your empty wine bottle and Jean's stack of cards, hungry for each other's mouths. Hands wandered in places they had never traveled before, and it wasn't long before your desirous folding made its way off the floor and onto the bed.

You put your whole weight on top of him in the sheets, and a prodding force digging into your thigh awoke a fire in you.

"Help me get this damn dress off," you moaned quickly after breaking away from his lips, only to plant your own back on his a second later.

Jean reached around your back and fumbled with your dress strings from underneath. You could feel his struggles as his kisses grew distracted and sloppy, so you pulled yourself up and out of his grasp. Pulling at the strings, you quickly undid the laces that kept you bound, and the sudden release forced an enchanted sign from your throat.

You looked down at the lover you had straddled between your thighs, and his clouded, honeyed eyes and rosy cheeks reflected light so much more beautifully than any moon.

"Are you enjoying the view, Mr. Kirstein," you teased him but leaned down to whisper in his ear, "I have all sorts of sights I can show you before your stay ends."

"Do you show all your guests these sights?" he asked with a similar tease in his voice.

"Only one. Only you."

In one sweeping motion, Jean flipped you off him and onto your back. You giggled with the change of positions and how he trailed kisses from your lips to your chin and to your clavicle. He peered up at you between your loosened bust.

"And there will only ever be one," he said as he tugged the dress fabric from your body and onto the floor until you were bathed in white.

He reclaimed your lips quickly. While he was busied with your mouth, nimble fingers undid the buttons of his shirts until his chest was exposed. Your hands wandered over the muscles, and his knees spread your uncovered legs wider with each hungry exploration. He was sturdy and strong like a smoking, blue mountain, and you stole every stone he offered.

You would steal his love until his mouth went dry; steal his skin until it was torn clean off by clawing nails; steal his heart until it beat too quickly for him to survive. And he could steal all the same things from you if he liked. He didn't even need to steal them. You would offer everything you still had left, free of charge, as he had given you something no money could buy.

On an inconsequential Friday, Jean handed you back your humanity. Even if it was only for a night, and you never felt it again, you were glad to have it just once and for it to be with him.

Kisses wandered again, and you watched over swollen lids as Jean trailed lower and lower until his face waited patiently between your thighs. Your modest drawers were the only coverage shielding you from his hot breath, but you desperately wanted him to tear apart all the useless clothes until they were nothing but shredded fabric dotting the floor.

But he didn't. You propped yourself onto your elbows to find that he still lingered between bent knees with a lecherous smirk. He did not move to strip off your decency or plant more kisses. He only waited.

"Are you going to ask to take them off?" you questioned.

"No. I am only enjoying one of the many views I paid for."

"You mean Armin paid for. He was the one that handed over the money."

"Armin? Are you on a first-name basis with him now? Should I be worried?"

"You will be if you waste time talking instead of undressing me."

"To enjoy a view so pretty is hardly a waste."

Although Jean's playfulness excited you, you were eager to enjoy whatever came next. You hooked a thumb at the hem of your drawers, but a second hand caught you from tearing off the cloth and pushed it away.

Jean clicked his tongue and shook his head. "You have tonight and tomorrow to sleep, no? What is the rush?"

"I'm not rushing. You shouldn't make a lady wait."

"Then beg me to remove my hand, and maybe I will stop making you wait?"

"Beg you?" You rolled your eyes and threw yourself back onto the mattress. You dramatically sighed as though you were in a play, "I beg you to take off my clothes, oh, sweet prince."

"You really are a terrible actress." Jean ran his unused hand up the inside of your thigh and stopped inches from your core, sending shivers along your spine and burning away your silliness. "Try again, without the dramatics."

"I... I want you to undress me."

His hand traveled down and up your leg again, but this time, he came much closer to your center, his rough thumb brushing against every goosebump. "And who do you need to undress you?"

"I need you to undress me, Jean."

"A simple 'please' may go a long way, mon huître."

"Please, Jean. Undress me," you finally begged.

You finally looked over your breasts with heaving breaths, all created with the kneading of your thigh. Jean's eyes were almost pitch-black with desire. His steaming cheeks, either from mild inebriation or libidinous thoughts, drew you in until you could see only red. And his smirk... It was diabolical.

"Quelle bonne fille," he murmured as he slid that traveling hand up your side to the hem you were so antsy to peel off.

He tugged the fabric down your sensitive thighs, past your ankles, and off your skin. They dropped onto the wood beneath you with a soft thump as cool air kissed your growing wetness. That cool air mingled with Jean's hot breath until your senses nearly fizzled into nothingness.

"May I touch you?" Jean asked from between your legs.

All that, and he hadn't even truly touched you yet.

You could only nod dumbly in response to his question. You couldn't even watch as he dipped lower, and his breath grew hotter. Instead, you shut your eyes tightly and pressed a hand to your mouth. And when he finally did touch you, dragging his warm tongue between your folds, a whimper escaped from between your fingers, inspired by the pleasure such a simple touch could derive.

The heat instantly disappeared once you whimpered, and your eyes shot open to find Jean no longer between your legs.

"Are you alright?" he panicked from a foot above your bent knees. "Did I hurt you?"

"No! No, it... it felt good. You can keep going."

"Oh. I—Sorry."

Jean resettled into his position, most of the magic from his teasing dissipated into nothing, but it quickly returned the more his tongue lapped up your desire. He drew perfect circles around your jewel in an even more flawless rhythm until your eyes began to flutter and cross. Your fingers moved on their own and locked themselves in his soft hair. You pulled him in closer, using his hair as makeshift reins to control his distance. Moans, whimpers, and praises of his God-Given, innate talents filled every inch of that cabin. You swam in baths of ecstasy; you soared through clouds of bliss; you walked through hills of pleasure–all without moving an inch.

Every muscle in your body contracted in anticipation. Your entire core sparked into the brightest fire that not even the sun could rival. His tongue's skill was leagues better than your own fingers ever dreaming of being, and you wondered how you could have gone your whole life without such a heavenly sensation. It was as though Jean had created your body from clay and knew precisely what motions and speeds you craved before your mind could even draw together a simple phrase.

"Fuck," you cursed more and more the closer he brought you toward climax. "Just like that, Jean. Oh, God, it's perfect."

He held his ministrations and momentum until you finally fell down that ecstasy-lined hill, and he even continued as you rolled through fields of pleasure. Your body shook in thousands of places with lightning bolts, and storm clouds hazed behind your eyes. Roots grounded you into the sheets of that simple bed until you descended into another natural plane of bliss. Even as the sensation waned and Jean pulled away from your entrance, you swore you could feel the ocean tides in your heart.

You thought to yourself as your body and soul conjoined, La petite mort. Maybe it was the perfect string of words.

Jean slowly inched his way up to your face with wetness still glistening on his lips and chin in the dwindling candlelight. His confidence faded into apprehension the longer you panted through half-shelled lids.

"Was that alright?"

You didn't answer with words but rather by grabbing his face and crashing your lips onto his. Your flavor swirled over your tongue, and you were glad to find it pleasant on the pallet. Judging how eagerly your lover devoured your sweetest fruit, perhaps you should have already known.

Jean shifted from your side until he was on top of you again. His total weight crushed into your waist like the world's heaviest blanket. His hardness pressed into your core even harder through his clothes, and you found another thing to be desperate for that evening.

"You are so beautiful," he said between kisses.

If you could, you would stay in this cabin forever. Before you would ever unlock the door, you would starve, only feasting on sweet nothings and empty promises of a beautiful future of a house with distant blue hills and rainbowed piles of falling leaves.

You stole his hand and led it over your stomach, past your ribs, and up to your breast. You only released him when he cupped the flesh tenderly under his massive hands. Stiffened peaks, shrouded in another annoying layer of your camisole, protected the sensitive buds from thoroughly enjoying his heavenly gifts.

Your own hands wandered, too. You brought them to the top of his trousers and felt along the covered bulge that threatened to steal your purity. As you smoothed the taught fabric, Jean whimpered into your mouth in pleasure. You massaged his shaft again, and a jumbled curse slipped from his tongue. Although you couldn't fully see his size, the feeling of it slightly concerned you.

From what you understood, losing one's virginity was already a painful experience. But to lose it to a man so... well-endowed was sure to be an entirely different type of pain.

[TRIGGER WARNING: PANIC ATTACK]

But Jean's hand traveled further without your guidance while yours focused on his cock. The fingers trailed your neck in a frantic hunt to cup your jaw. Only for a moment did the calloused gold graze against your healed skin, barely missing your trachea, but the sensation forced your eyes wide.

Suddenly, two hands closed your airways, and all your muscles tightened in agony. You left the cabin's safety and saw only the tavern cellar's stone. Blood trickled from your healing scar, and your vision blurred. You struggled for wheezing breaths, hyperventilations tearing your hands from Jean's pants and up to his chest.

"Jean," you pleaded as you feebly shoved at him. "Jean. Jean. Jean. Stop."

He stopped.

"What?" Jean asked, terror dimming his eyes as he pried himself off. "What happened? Are you alright?"

Everything stopped.

You couldn't breathe, but your throat was no longer damaged. Invisible hands dug into your flesh, but no one touched you. Pain replaced the pleasure, but you would have no bruises in the morning.

Jean could bandage every slice on your fingers, hide every blister on your ankles, and wipe away every bit of blood that soaked your skin, but your wounds ran deeper than the surface. They dwelled in places his healing hands could never reach. Despite all the headway you had made in your physical recovery, your mind had yet to heal. And that broken mind had now tainted your last good memory in dark shades of anguish.

No loving coat could hide your pain. Only you could heal those wounds, and you had failed to do so in time.

It couldn't be. You couldn't lose this night. You had already lost so many nights. You couldn't stand another failure.

"I'm alright!" you panicked with a forced smile. "I'm alright. I'm sorry, I just... I was overwhelmed, and I... We can keep going!"

"Y/n."

"I'm alright, see? It's fine! I'm fine. I was just overwhelmed, but we can continue; I just–"

"Y/n."

"I just need a minute to recollect myself, and we can–"

"You are crying, Y/n," Jean successfully cut you off. Your hand reached up to your cheek and felt the streams of hot tears. "You are crying."

Your lip trembled, but you kept your smile firmly stamped. "It's alright. I just need a minute to clean it off, and we can keep–"

"Stop, Y/n. Please."

And the smile fell. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I... I should have warned you, or I should have held myself together. I never meant to–"

"Stop," Jean said more firmly, but there was no anger behind his warm eyes. There was no lust either—only concern. "I am sorry. I should never have touched you that way. This is not your fault, do you understand? I will not listen to you apologize for my mistake–a mistake I will never make again." His hardened voice softened. "I am so sorry."

The tears came down in floods. You ruined what had all the makings of a perfect night with your weakness and fear. You wanted to say something to him, but you couldn't find the words over your tightened throat.

"I ruin everything for you, don't I?" you managed to choke out.

"Nothing is ruined. This moment is... it does not matter what it is because it does not change everything else we did tonight. I will remember tonight for your terrible accent and your pretty dress, not a few tears. And we will learn from tonight and never make the same mistakes. We... We can try another night... I will be more careful with you, and... Or, we can never again if it would—"

"I don't want to live like this for the rest of my life. I don't want you to live like this! Walking on eggshells, afraid to place your hands... it's not fair! It's not... It's not fair."

You couldn't stand to see his expression fall, so you bowed your head in shame.

Because it wasn't fair to ask someone you loved to watch you fall apart and suffer alongside you, no matter how badly you wished they would. The selfless and selfish halves of you pulled in two directions again: heaven and hell. You were drawn and quartered by love and misery. Everything was ruined. No part of your life was left untouched by tragedy. You couldn't even enjoy what could very well be your last night alive with the man you adored without being reminded of the man that stole everything you planned to give away.

The curse the Sergeant put on you would stain you for the rest of your days. You cried again for the deer you killed and your own little death at the hands of two monsters: Sergeant Gross and yourself.

"How I live is my choice," Jean broke the silence. "And I am choosing to live it with you for as long as possible. Y/n... Your soul has touched mine in ways hands could never dare to reach. If need be, I will go my whole life without touching you if it meant you felt safe by only breathing the same air."

"You don't mean that."

"I do. I would not say it if I did not mean it. I would trade every kiss–every touch–if it meant you trusted me with your presence."

When tears no longer dripped and emptiness swallowed you again, you stared at the distant clock ticking in the far corner.

It was three in the morning.

"We should sleep. It's late."

"Can I get you something? New clothes? Water?"

"No, I'm alright now. Just... don't leave."

"I would come back. Fetching water is quick."

"I'm not sure I want to be alone. Not even for a second."

And so he stayed, as he always did.

Jean did not try to touch you, even in passing, but he stayed by your side the whole night. You wanted him to reach for you to see if you could even feel it, but it was for the best he kept to himself to avoid further spoiling the last evening.

And while he restlessly slept, you laid awake until the sun rose, studying the groves in the wooden walls, wishing you shared more in common with the moon than its dreadful coldness.

You never slept a second after you snuck back into the lake house and hid under your blankets. Before you made that last journey to the Sergeant's home, you did not fuss over colors. You threw on your black mourning dress with a wide-brim hat to hide your scar, as it was the only surviving remnant from your grief. Studying your reflection in the sewing room mirror, you were no longer disgusted by your reflection.

Not because you had suddenly found some new appreciation for your body but because you scarcely looked like yourself. On that Saturday, you were the spitting image of your mother.

The Ripper commented on how much you reminded him of her as he prepared a pistol for you. He showed you how to hold and point the weapon, and you listened with hollow ears, even though you had brought along your father's knife. That knife, the same one that freed you from his deathly grasp, would be the same tool you would use to slit the Sergeant's throat.

The monster came back from his round at the tavern, and the time came for you to walk through the yard and wait for him outside his outhouse. You glided over wet grass like an apparition–your mother waiting in the reflection of your father's blade. You paused behind the closed door and could hear the Sergeant rustling around in the wooden box.

Before he exited, you pointed the gun up to where you thought his chest would be, your finger on the trigger.

Would it be different when he opened the door? Would he look like a deer, or would he look like a monster?

And when the door opened, and the man who had stolen every bit of goodness from your heart froze appeared, you whispered, "Hold still, Enculé. Otherwise, my trigger finger might slip."

French Translations:

La petite mort = an orgasm (Literal translation is 'the little death')

Parfait. C'est ma fille = Perfect. That's my girl

Quelle bonne fille = What a good girl

Enculé = Cocksucker

Thank you for reading <3