𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐗 : 𝐕𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐃𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 *

Content Warnings: Sexual Content

. . .

Before you left the grove, you stole a decent bundle of cedar to take home, along with a few final kisses. You sent Jean back to the Yeagers' house to sleep rather than accompany you and Mr. Arlert to the lake, which you quickly came to find was the wisest choice you had made in months.

Had your lover come, Niccolo would have beat him senseless in the fiery rage you ignited the moment you walked in the door. Your dearest received enough battering for the rest of the summer. Maybe even the rest of his life.

You had pulled out all the best arguments: logical reasonings as to why it made sense for Jean to return due to him paying for the space; ethical reasonings that the Frenchman had grown much more tolerable since Niccolo's trip to the city; and lastly, the emotional reasonings that you deserved to live normally with everyone you had come to know throughout this summer and all the previous ones because so much time had already been stolen.

To ensure Niccolo did not catch on to the selfish and salacious intentions behind your beggings, you threw Eren into the conversation every few minutes. You missed your oldest friend; you deserved to spend time with him; he would depart for college in late September, and you would not see him until Christmas–unassuming anecdotes like those.

Mr. Arlert watched you plead the case in the entryway from the parlor sofa. Words formed behind his blue eyes as you struggled for victory, but his secrets remained trapped behind a chewed bottom lip. Perhaps it was because he understood how pointless this fight was. Words were worthless when whining on deaf ears.

You might have lost your voice for some time, but Niccolo had lost his hearing to match. Then again, Niccolo had always been a stubborn creature. Although he would let you go out and walk now, he would not bend on other matters so easily once his mind was made.

"No! Absolutely not!" Niccolo blared, his face redder with every protest he threw at you. "I have said it once, and I will say it a thousand times until it sticks: under no circumstances am I allowing either of those idiots back in this house! And you will not leave this house without my supervision from now on, Y/n! I swore to look after you, and that's what I plan to do!"

"But–"

"No! For the last time, no!" And Niccolo stormed off into the safety of the kitchen. Thunderous steps shook the house the further he went, and you were left standing still as stone in the entryway.

Tomorrow, or maybe even as early as dinner, Niccolo would act as though he never raised his voice to you and that all was well. You probably wouldn't even receive an apology. He would carry on with his life, disregarding how he obstructed yours. How inwardly furious that made you–knowing that everyone had the freedom to move forward while you remained frozen in place.

Having no option but to grin and bear Niccolo's nature, you drifted into the parlor and threw yourself onto the sofa beside Mr. Arlert.

"What would you have me do?" the author asked when you were within whispering distance. "If Jean cannot come here, then how do we proceed? Should I sneak you out through the window each night? But what if you slip and break something? What if Niccolo catches us? He'll pound on me for acting as an accomplice. What should we do? What can I do?"

Why could nothing ever go smoothly? Why did you always have to take on the dirty jobs and make the difficult choices? Why did you always have to be the man? There was always an obstacle to evade; a hill to climb; a monster to slay.

And while you sunk into couch cushions, the clock ticked against the wall. She was loud and persistent the closer she crept to your ear. Her unfeeling finger tapped endlessly on your scarred temple as if to say: It's time to give up, child.

But there was still time. Even if you had to defy the laws of Mother Nature and sneak through darkness every night to nick pennied seconds from her purse, you would steal all the time she withheld.

You fabricated a quick plan and instructed the author, "Visit the Yeagers and tell them the good news. Carla will disseminate the information to everyone that cares to hear it. Then... Tell Jean to come to the lake in two days but to wait until nightfall. And to bring Lucy. And Eren. And... and tell them both that I need them to eat and rest in the meantime. I want to see even skin and full cheeks when we all celebrate."

You sent the homing pigeon on his way and smudged cedar through the house once his silhouette rippled in distance heatwaves. You were much more careful with your intentions than usual, asking the good spirits to watch over you and ordering the dark ones to leave the house.

You slunk up to your bedroom once the home was well-cleansed. As you lay in bed, you pictured Jean sleeping in the grove. How badly you wanted to see him in the daylight, glowing the same beautiful way you found him that morning, but Niccolo saw fit to make that wish nothing more than a dream. Not even your gift could manipulate the reality of your waking situation. Love would exist behind darkened windows for as long as the shades needed to stay drawn, but you so painfully wanted to let in the light.

Nonetheless, you accepted your lot in life. You would act as the diligent and kind child Niccolo had come to know rather than the defiant woman he had never had the misfortune of meeting.

Before you could see your lover again, you fielded all the usual visitors and some irregular ones, all intending to congratulate your little victory against Fate once your courier spread the word.

Of course, Hitch was the first to rush through the door. She nearly broke the wood off the hinges with her entrance and threw herself onto you with tears wetting your cheek. She planted countless kisses on the same wet apples as Marlowe watched from the doorway. If he was jealous that his wife gifted you abundant affection, his genuine smile kept any envy at bay.

Next, Mr. Smith and Mr. Ackerman shuffled in. You received a speech from the blond, saying that justice always finds the guilty party while your teacher studied with his mismatched stare. Mr. Smith exited your bedroom first in search of Niccolo, but Mr. Ackerman lingered. You returned his suit and eyepatch in the bag he had gifted them in, but he pulled out the fabrics and examined the bloodstains on the coat sleeves before you could explain them away.

He did not question the discoloration, only nodded in approval, and returned the clothes to their bag.

He muttered a quiet, "I will have these burned by morning," and disappeared with a limp and without a second glance.

The Springers entered the second day, and Mr. Springer had finally returned from his trip to Boston. While Martin sat on your lap, Sunny braided your hair, Connie stared out your window, and Mrs. Springer tidied your messy room, Mr. Springer stood in awe of everything he had missed. The father gave you his apologies and then an invitation.

Despite the tragic events that proceeded the day, the Springers still intended to host their yearly summer party and hoped you would attend as an honored guest. If Niccolo allowed you to go, it shaped up to be a lovely affair, but the chef's overprotective nature was sure to ruin any hopes of fun. You wouldn't get your hopes up but appreciated the kind gesture nonetheless.

Mrs. Yeager and Zeke swept into your bedroom to round out the visitations. Carla came bearing sweets, and Zeke handed over a bouquet of eight pink roses. The mother jokingly criticized his lack of knowledge regarding flower etiquette and for not bringing a dozen red ones, but you knew that Zeke was well-versed in the roses' secret language. You thanked both for their constant support, and if you had not expelled every possible tear the last few weeks, you might have even cried.

Carla did cry, and you learned that she knew the good news well before even you did. It was Dr. Yeager, who sent his regards through his wife, that advised the officers to send the Sergeant away in the first place.

You sent the mother and son off with good wishes for the doctor and the missing son.

And each time your bedroom emptied, you closed your eyes and allowed yourself to wander through lies.

Half of your dreams were pleasant during those two days of anticipation. The pleasant ones were where you had complete control. You existed in memories and futures, shifting between your old home in town, your current one on the lake, and your new home in secluded forests with a mountainous skyline.

You also visited a home you didn't know. It was undersized on a raised floor with no more than a bedroom, a living space, and a kitchen. The furnishings were poor, but the silk, cotton, and wool draped over cheap seats, waited by your sparkling sewing machine, and pinned to mannequins gave off a rich array of colors that the rest of the room lacked. Fingers glided over the expensive fabrics and intricate lines that only your hands would stitch together, but when you attempted to try on the dresses and skirts cluttering your space, none fit.

The garments were too wide or too narrow; too long or too short; too bright or too dark. They were not meant for you.

The rest of your dreams were better labeled as nightmares. You felt hands on the throat, blood on the skin, rain on the shoulders. You felt knives digging into your knuckles and darkness suffocating your airways. Although the monster was exiled from town, the Sergeant haunted the underside of your mattress.

Whenever you snapped up from those nightmares, no matter the hour of the day, you awoke panting. No cedar smoke would cast away the pain. Not entirely, anyway. Only Time and her constant ticking would smudge out the stain.

The night did come, and although your eyes were less puffy after weeks of living on the edge, you dreaded the thought of abandoning the house for the lakefront.

Not because you weren't excited, of course. You had never been more excited about something in a long while.

You dreaded picking something to wear.

It was silly—after nearly dying and being branded with permanent scars—you were afraid of choosing a dress. But, in some strange way, the distraction of outfits made you feel more human again.

As you snuck what little medicine remained into Niccolo's water, you diverted your thoughts of misdeeds with the idea of mixing reds, blues, and yellows. Jean's favorite color was green, but that was not a color you often favored.

While Niccolo's eyes grew heavy after a full meal of your favorite foods and a few pages read in the parlor, you wondered if you could get away with pastels for a night. They may not flatter your natural color the way Jean preferred, but you adored your closet's light pinks and soft blues.

While helping a barely lucid Niccolo to bed, you wondered if you should don the red dress you had been working toward since the start of your imprisonment. You still had a half day's work to tidy up the remaining black embroidery and lace the matching details into the matching gloves, but to an untrained eye, the dress appeared finished enough.

However, it was when you tucked Niccolo into bed, him muttering some sleepy gratitudes for your assistance and apologies for always needing to be regularly supported upstairs and for raising his voice so often as of late, that clothes could no longer distract you from the guilt.

You had become a terrible child in your grief.

This is normal, isn't it? Not the drugging, of course, but the rebellion the transition to adulthood brought. As much as you wanted to be a good child, you desperately needed to be a free woman. You needed to feel every type of love, not just the one you received from friends and parents. You needed to hold and be held by someone you might never touch again.

You wanted to bask in love's glow at all hours of the day but would settle for the night.

Father would have locked you away the same way Niccolo had if Fate had pulled a different card. He was most assuredly rolling in his grave, knowing that you were drugging poor Niccolo and sneaking off to spend the night with a man–worst of all, a European painter.

Would you have spiked Father's drinks to carry out these violent delights?

No, you never would have done something so terrible.

The stakes were no longer as high as they once were. You no longer sought out revenge; you sought out typical, young, foolish romance. It would weigh less on your heart if you ceased manipulating with medicine. Niccolo was a heavy enough sleeper before your poison frazzled him, so you would live between the spaces of your new and old life.

That decision made your choice of dress easier, too. You pulled a simple yellow dress from hung outfits, cinched your waist as tight as the stomach could tolerate, and crept outside with cicadas and crickets trumpeting songs at your arrival.

You knocked on Mr. Arlert's door, inviting him to join in on the impending festivities. The blond followed to Jean's cabin, where the two of you waited patiently for the other guests to arrive.

"So," Mr. Arlert broke the lull first. "When did it start?"

"When did what start?" you asked.

"The romancing. Between you and Jean?"

"Oh." Heat rose to your cheeks as you stuttered through a thought, "Well... I'm not entirely sure. It... It... It started very suddenly. I can't speak for him, obviously, but... You could say that... Romantic feelings cracked my resistance toward him faster than a brick through a window. I shattered, and at some point, he did, too, and then... then it just... happened."

Mr. Arlert sensed your audible nervousness and swirled into a winded explanation, "I don't mean to pry, but I can't seem to stifle my curiosity. Jean has never been strong in the arts of romance, you see. Even when he was happier, he turned too red-faced for any woman to take him seriously."

"Any woman?" You suddenly felt insecure. "Did he often make attempts at flirtations?"

Mr. Arlert's face turned red under the candlelit glow. "No! No, of course not! I was only intrigued by the precipitousness of your relationship! Jean has never been the forward kind, either. Women often approached him, with his height and broadness so difficult to ignore, but it was our... Our other friend that scooped them up once Jean nearly split apart at the seams trying to excuse himself from the ladies."

The insecurities faded fast, and you said, "The other friend is Marco, isn't it?" Mr. Arlert appeared taken aback by the correct assessment. "I met..." but you quickly redirected before you gave away your strange dreams. "What I mean to say is... Jean spoke very highly of him several times in your absence. I... I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Arlert. Marco is... sounded like a truly kind soul, in every sense of the word."

The uncomfortable silence was deafening, but a sadness whispered within it. Mr. Arlert chewed on his bottom lip while you picked at your fingers, both managing the quiet screaming in your own ways.

What a horrible atmosphere for a celebration. Of all the times for Jean to delay his arrival, this was the worst possible moment, as it allowed your stupid mouth to wander into Mr. Arlert's painful memories.

But again, the author's authentic voice broke through his shattered mask of contentment, "...Jean spoke of Marco. And to you, no less? Jean never lets me get a word in edgewise before he flies off the handle... You must have stirred something in him." He added with the emptiest of laughs, "Is it wrong to say I am a bit jealous?"

Useless. That was the best way to describe Mr. Arlert's tone and expression. He felt useless to his friend. You had succeeded where he could not, and God did you feel responsible for his broken spirit.

"Sometimes, it's easier to confide in strangers than our closest frie–"

The cabin door eerily creaked open, and you closed your mouth.

There stood a panting, sweating Eren–his cold, green eyes turning wet as soon as you locked onto one another. With no sense of the heavy mood he had stumbled into, Eren rushed over, yanked you to your feet, and threw his arms around you. His embrace was so tight that the pressure made your ribs nearly crack in hundreds of places.

"I'm sorry," Eren sobbed into your shoulder sleeves. "I'm sorry I couldn't end this sooner. I'm sorry it took so long. I'm so sorry."

Your best friend stunk of vices. The spirits and smoke forced themselves into your nose the deeper Eren buried himself in your flesh, and you wanted to gag at the stench. You tried to rub the despair clinging to his spine with sisterly hands, but each vertebra broke apart and released all the withheld sentiments before you could stitch them back together.

"It's alright, Eren," you tried to smooth him over. "It's not your fault. You did nothing wrong. Everything is alright."

It only gets worse, doesn't it? Everyone had such sour, guilty consciences for things entirely out of anyone's control, and the night hadn't even started. Mr. Arlert appeared dejected, Eren wept into your shoulder, and you had caused both reactions, although you never intended to hurt either party. You had to do something before the whole night was ruined.

"I invited you over to celebrate, you know. Not ruin my dress," you quipped in an attempt at humor, but the pain persisted. Gently, you pushed Eren off to peer into his cracked, emerald soul. "Should I run back into the house and steal some of Niccolo's liquor to warm you both up?"

Eren sniffled, some of the life returning to his cheeks. "Kirstein brought some wine Zeke sent him with. And I... I brought a flask."

"And where is he?"

"He's somewhere with your devil cat. I took off from them once I saw the house. I... I needed to see you. I needed to know you were taking this well."

You reached up to wipe the tears from Eren's skin. "And now you have seen me, and I am taking things just fine. So no more crying, alright? You deserve to have a little fun again. Just like old times."

Time would never be the same as it was, but even a flash of the past was better than a lifetime of tears. Everyone could take turns crying another night.

You held a hand out to Eren and said, "Now, hand me your flask." He reached into his pocket and dropped the tin in your palm. "What's in it?"

"Whiskey," was all he had the spirit to answer.

Instead of taking the first sip of many sips that evening, you unscrewed the top and held it to Eren's mouth. Your friend took a drink before you stole it back, and then you stepped to Mr. Arlert. The author's eyes were shrouded in navy, but the gesture forced him to see your soft smile.

"You next, Armin," you gently ordered. "You appear more in need of good spirits than I."

Armin's lips pulled upward at your absence of formalities, a puff leaving his nose. He took the flask and swallowed three strong gulps. Each dip of his Adam's apple creased his corners more than the last before he extended the tawny beverage back to you.

You grimaced at the thought of the fire that would coat your throat, but you pinched your nose and forced yourself to swallow. Whiskey waterfalled into your dry mouth. The taste was awful–like poison corrupting every drop of your blood. Even when you could barely hold the liquid in your mouth, you kept swallowing until the bottle was almost empty. A drop or two leaked past your lips, and you lowered the tin to save yourself from coughing everything back up.

Whiskey never did go down smoothly. At least, not when you drank it straight. There was a reason why most sane people mixed it with lemonade and sipped it slow: to make the burn more tolerable. Whiskey raged in the tides of your stomach, giving you a nasty bout of nauseous seasickness.

No wonder it was Eren's preferred spirit. He got a rise out of being unbearable. At least, he used to when life was good, and youth felt eternal. You had to press a hand to your mouth to keep the fire in your throat.

That was when Eren expelled a small chuckle at your pain. Through wincing, teary eyes, you shot him a glare that brought fuller laughter out of his stomach. Armin even joined in on the shared joy.

Maybe youth still existed in some small place in their hearts, and it felt good to bring it out into the candlelight.

"You never could handle the stronger stuff," Eren joked. "Your girly stomach is too weak."

Before you could move to backhand Eren's arm for his rudeness, a shadow appeared at the open door.

It was Jean, who already glared daggers at Eren before even stepping into the cabin. In his calloused hands and strong arms, your painter carried all sorts of items that obviously he had no help in toting: a burlap sack that was full of Lord-knows-what, a dozen freshly cut tiger lilies from your garden, and your perfect, sweet kitten snoozing in the crook of his forearm.

"Lucy!" you couldn't help but scream when you saw her, and all your nausea evaporated.

You nearly shoved Eren to the floor to reach your baby and wasted no time relieving Jean of her weight. She purred so hard that she shook your bones as soon as you wrapped around her. It had been so long since you last saw her, and your little girl must have doubled in size since the first night you scooped her up and found her chicken to gorge on. To know you had lost out on much of her infancy wounded your heart, but these little moments when you could cuddle and rub cheeks with her made up for the loss.

"The flowers are for you, as well," Jean said, reminding you of his presence. The blush that colored him embarrassed tugged on your lips.

"Did you happen to bring water?" you asked. "Or should we go out and fetch a bucket."

But Eren had to ruin the moment with his whiskey burns. "Kirstein, I already told you on the way here that my brother brought her roses. She doesn't have enough table space in her room for more. You should have brought more wine instead."

Mr. Arlert perked up. "Oh, do tell me you brought decent wine in that bag, Jean. I can't be expected to drink that godawful excuse for liquor all night. I won't survive."

Eren whined with his brightness mostly restored, "It's not that bad! It works quickly and does the job when you need it the most, just like it already has tonight. Reminds me of myself."

"And you also make me want to die when I have had too much of you," Jean bit back. "A perfect pair, indeed."

The children went on to bicker, and you rolled your eyes so hard you briefly went blind. Not seeing a point in waiting for them to finish, as they could go all night with their nonsense, you stole the wilting flowers off Jean's table from your last night spent together and walked the vase and Lucy to the well.

As you cranked up the bucked and filled the glass, Lucy jumped through the grass, catching fireflies in her mittens and relieving herself in the dirt. You were glad you no longer needed to worry about letting her out again for a few hours so that you could focus on celebrating with her, her father, and your friends.

Once you returned and plucked your flowers from warring hands, you spent almost all of your time playing with Lucy. At some point, between the fighting and cursing, Armin joined your playtime on Jean's bed with a bottle of wine in hand. The two of you dangled blankets in Lucy's face between passing sips. A few times, the author held her, and she absolutely adored him. When you weren't snuggling her against your chest as though she was made from your own blood, Lucy rubbed herself all over Armin's clothes to cover the Londoner with her scent.

All the previous sadness had drifted off in ghosts, and only contentment and arguments remained. Never before had you been so thankful to hear Jean and Eren wage a war of tongues, and you looked forward to a decade or two of cuddling with your sweetest babe.

" She must like you," you said to Armin as Jean and Eren slung childish insults from the small table. "She bites just about every man in her life. I bet she still bites Eren. That's the only reason he could hate such a perfect creature. "

"The Ancient Egyptians revered cats," the author informed you. "One of their many goddesses, Basset, was often depicted as a cat herself. She was a warrior woman of the Sun. At least, that's what I took away from my studies. I've also read that cats purr in attempts to heal themselves and others–a rather divine gift for a perfect creature. It's the frequency of the sound you see. It's said to hasten the healing process, but who knows if that's based on any substantial science. But, if it is true, I believe she is trying to lighten my spirits more than show me affection, although I do appreciate her little kindnesses either way."

You could fumble your way through an enlightened conversation regarding old Egyptian deities and unstudied sciences. Still, you lacked the knowledge to engage beyond what little you had learned from Antony and Cleopatra and what you witnessed from Dr. Zoe and Dr. Berner's visit in the spring.

Instead, you offered a quiet, "Isn't that what the wine and whiskey are for?"

Armin laughed breathily at your assessment. "I suppose you're right," he conceded. "Let's heal our wounds with empty bottles until we become too drunk to evade the hangovers."

He raised the wine bottle and took a sip of his red wine–a dark bead slipping from the corner of his mouth. If you were bold enough or still harbored hidden feelings, you might have traced a finger to stop the red from staining his clothes, but you allowed the bead to fall onto the navy ripples of his trousers as he handed you back the bottle.

"Cheers to that," you said and swallowed a few mouthfuls in a show of good faith.

"Hey!" Eren called from across the room, and you hadn't noticed that the arguing had cooled itself. Your best friend, still inside, wiggled the box of matches and two cigars between his fingers like he was dangling a prize. "You two lovesick puppies want a little medicine? You'll have to share one, though. Father only had three left."

Jean had since disappeared onto the cabin porch, but you could still see him through the half-open door. Your lover struck a match, brought it to his mouth, and stamped it out onto the wood once his cigar glowed red. In awe, you watched as the fiery end brightened his hardened features, and the smoke that slipped from between his full lips clouded the rest of the world.

You may not be the biggest fan of a cigar's stench, but you would inhale the heat from Jean's mouth like it was the cleanest mountain air. Ash could coat your lungs black and block your airways forever, but you would breathe him no matter the pain. He could pollute every drop of your blood until each vein buzzed with tobacco.

Eren grabbed your attention again, "Y/n? Are you coming? Yes or no."

Only then did you notice that Armin had left your side to join your friend by the door. Both awaited your answer, but you had been too profoundly enchanted by smokey thoughts to see it.

How easily could the witch become bewitched by a man? Mother must be embarrassed.

"Oh... I'm... I'm afraid I'll have to pass," you shakily rejected the offer. "Can't risk smelling too strongly of smoke. If Niccolo smells it on my skin in the morning, he'll wonder what I get up to at night. Besides, I'd like to spend some time with Lucy."

"Just bring that thing out with you, jump in the lake when we're done, and rub yourself with some of that fancy oil Zeke buys you. He won't smell anything if you clean it all off." Eren pushed.

"I doubt Lucy wants to jump into the waves with me."

You forced the men onto the cabin's porch to smoke their celebratory cigars, sip their secret wine, and whisper toasts to your health and safety. Their expulsion, however, did not stop you from slipping out every so often–stealing little kisses from their smokes. A little puff here and there wouldn't kill or stick to you, as the scent was unlikely to cling to your clothes if you were quick enough.

You stole Eren's light first: an indirect kiss to brotherly love. He had been the steamboat in a choppy life, always steering your soul with platonic steadiness. His smoke would blow with you forever, whether through guidance or in cigar passes. You choked before inhaling properly, only for your longest friend to smack your back and chuckle at your weakness. You hobbled back inside from your failure, slightly embarrassed by your ugly coughs.

Next, you stole Mr. Arlert's: a kiss to forgotten, unrequited love. You fell into waves for him through words from across the sea and little kindnesses on dry land, but the winds of your relationship now carried toward everlasting friendship. You would only ever taste his lips on the butt of a cigar, but that was as close as you would ever need now. You managed to take a deep breath, but your exhale was a coughing mess. Mr. Arlert offered you sympathetic eyes and a soft smile at your misfortune as you waved your hand in front of your mouth and snuck back to your kitten's safety.

Lastly, you stole Jean's: a kiss to honest affection. You held his gaze as embers warmed honeyed glass. You lit a fire in him with your breath—a fire that screamed, I need to kiss you at least once before the night is over, or I will burn to ash, but you had no intention of giving in to his desires. You would stoke his flame with the gentle grazing of fingers until it spread over your lover's skin like wildfire.

Not because you enjoyed teasing him–although you thoroughly enjoyed it–but because Jean's blush had become your favorite color. It was a soft pink that others might confuse with intoxication, but you knew better. Not even a tsunami would have the power to wash off that color. And when you pushed smoke into the star-lit sky, no cough found your throat. His smoke cycled through your lungs, filling your brain with a blissful buzz created for you alone. The haze rolled through Jean's vacant eyes to color in his blankness in red-hot lust.

It was a shame you couldn't spend a moment alone with your painter on that porch and an even bigger shame that you had shared so few words the entire night. Jean maintained a polite distance with Eren hovering nearby, but each time you stole your lover's cigar, he leaned as close to your lips as he could without eliciting any reaction from your closest friend.

But you had your shared kitten, a bottle of decent wine, and a vase full of your favorite flowers. That was enough. For now, anyway.

You weren't entirely sure how Jean knew to choose the orange petals over pink or red ones. Now that you thought of it, was Jean the one that brought tiger lilies after Dr. Yeager stitched you up? You had disclosed your floral preferences to Marco once in a dream, but had the freckled man relayed the message through ghostly whispers, or did Jean share your taste for beautiful things?

You chose to believe the latter, as it felt more romantic.

And when the cigars reached their end, God did you all drink. Wine and liquor were passed around with hearty laughter that filled every nook and cranny. As expected, Armin was both a lovely writer and a superb orator. All his anecdotes regarding Jean's awkward youth left you and Eren reeling while the painter slathered his cheeks with crimson paint.

You knew you should stifle your laughter to save your beloved from embarrassment–and you tried so very hard–but picturing your Frenchman in such silly situations only made you adore him more. You imagined all the parts of him that Time saw fit to keep away, and each subsequent image was more adorable than the last.

"Oh, God, you should have seen him! I've never seen someone fall so hard attempting to dance!" Armin cackled between words. "My poor Mother did try to help him up, but he yanked her down with him into such a nasty pile! Then, he had all sorts of old ladies swarm him, asking if they could have the next turn to teach him some steps! He became the most popular man at the party in the first half-hour, and he couldn't even speak a lick of English yet!"

"That is enough, Armin," Jean complained. "I cannot take any more of this."

Eren's face grew mischievous, eyes flashing to you. Your friend said, "Let's rip into the Honored Guest of the evening, then?"

"Me?" Your face matched your friend's. "What could you, of all people, possibly have on me? You're the worm-eater, remember?"

"You ate worms?" Armin choked out. "Tell me it wasn't because you enjoyed the taste?"

"No!" Eren screeched as soon as he became the shame-filled victim. "I was paid to do it, and it was only one time."

"Three times," Jean corrected before you could, and you flashed him a smirk of approval.

"Oh, shut it, Lady-Killer. Want me to go across the lake and bring Floch's grandmother over for you to seduce with your shitty dances next?"

"I would have more luck with her than you. Should I invite the Madame for you to stare at her chest all night without making a peep in her direction?" Jean jabbed back at your friend.

"Fuck off, Frenchie."

"You first, cerveau d'huitre."

Your drunken brain sparked excitement as soon as you made the connection between words.

"Oyster!" you shouted. "I translated something!"

You nearly fell over in your chair from your outburst, but Jean was quick to reach from beside to steady your swaying shoulders. With Lucy snuggled in your lap, you needed his extra support.

"Good show!" Armin congratulated you. "Soon, you'll be putting together entire phrases!"

The merriment continued well into the night until only your lover could stand straight without nearly toppling over. Eren conked out with his cheek smooshed into the wooden table, and Armin giggled and hiccuped from the ground. The author had spilled onto the floor after his tenth drink. You had wandered into Jean's bed with your dress sprawled like buttercups over a lush field of bedsheets.

While you hummed to the kitten crawling over your chest and nuzzling your nose, Jean straightened up messes and hid any incriminating evidence of his visit. You watched him, taking in how he rolled his undershirt's sleeves to expose hot skin to open air, but you were too engrossed with how his veins and tendons flexed with his housework.

Is this how husbands feel watching their wives clean the house? you wondered. No wonder men had no control over their urges. You struggled to keep your clothes on with the domestic image stealing your mind. Would you be the first woman in history to have a husband who carried most of the chores on his back? You had spent so much time cleaning after others–it would be a welcomed change to have someone clean for you.

It might be too early to think of marriage, but there was plenty of time for lecherous thoughts spurred by drunkenness. You could repay his housework with wet kisses over every inch of his body. A showering love would fill his pockets with contentment and dress him in sultry shades of sensuality.

All your earlier vows to remain coy in your flirtations burnt to ash at the thought of Jean whimpering your name behind a locked door. If only Armin would return to his cabin, and Eren would make himself scarce outside somewhere.

Eventually, when nothing was left to tidy, Jean leaned over your limp body. Before running his thumb over your burning cheek, he made a quick pass at Eren, most likely to ensure your friend was still fully asleep.

"Can I get you water?" he asked softly.

You leaned harder into his hand with a soft hum. "I can come with you," you slurred slightly. "We can make a trip of it. Just the two of us."

"You barely reached the bed without falling, mon huître."

"Mon huître," you repeated, only to translate his words back to him. "My oyster. Have I given you your pearl yet, Mr. Kirstein?"

Jean answered with the softest of smiles, "I believe I have had it for some time."

"I can give you more if you'd like, Mr. Kirstein." Your voice turned airy as your words turned filthy. "Or maybe, you can give me some. A whole string of them."

Jean's cheeks turned pinker than clouds during a winter sunset. "You are too drunk for that, Madame Kir–" But Jean stopped before finishing his thought, and his color intensified to that of a beet from your garden.

You loved every color of Jean's skin, as his shades had overtaken all of your previous favorites. His cobalt and indigo veins, honey and amber eyes, strawberry and salmon cheeks. He was a beautiful palette in his own right, and his colors were the finest paint ever created. If you could stain a white dress with his colorful range, you would do so in a heartbeat and wear it every second of your life.

"I will be back with water. Stay here for me. No moving," he choked before retreating to the table to steal empty bottles. Before he snuck out the door, your lover turned and regarded the kitten kneading your stomach. "Gardez un œil sur ta mère, Lulu. Elle est beurrée."

You missed Jean's heat and craved him like another sip of wine once he was gone. Not knowing how to busy yourself, you lifted Lucy over your face but her armpits. Knowing she couldn't answer, you asked the kitten, "What did he say to you, my little love? Was it something rude?"

"He asked Lucy to watch you because you're utterly sozzled," Armin answered your question in giggles.

You rolled over to find Armin's eyes half-open. "You're still awake?" you asked.

"Mostly." The Londoner rolled off his back and crawled to the bed. He fell beside you with blue eyes staring up at the ceiling. "Jean will help me to my bed once he's back, and I'll sleep off the liquor."

"You should stay up," you mumble to him. "If you go to bed drunk, you'll wake up hungover."

Armin giggled again, and it felt terrific to sample his better spirits. "I'm not entirely sure that's how it works, my dear."

"That's what Zeke always told me to do."

"Probably because he was trying to keep you from making a proper mess all over fresh sheets or choking on chunder in your sleep."

"Chunder?"

"Vomit, my dear," the author supplied you with a silly synonym.

"Oh... Chunder."

"Exactly. Chunder. You'll know all British and French vernacular in no time, and you can learn more should you choose to visit. You really should visit when you have the time. You would love London. You and Eren, both. Eren can stay in the main house, and you'll sleep with Jean."

"Chunder," your brain stuck to the word. "So... ugly..."

Your world began to turn in whirlpools, and your mouth grew hot at the word Armin added to your vocabulary. You hated that word; it was repulsive, but you supposed it fit the action.

Jean entered with wine bottles filled with well water: one for you and one for Armin. Never before had you drank something so gingerly. The bubbling in your stomach softened, but your world still spun with nausea.

"Do you feel sick?" your painter asked, and you nodded. "Do you need to go outside?" You shook your head. "Are you sure?" And you shook your head again. "Alright, stand for me."

Lucy scurried from your body to assault Armin with nuzzles while Jean helped you to your feet. He held you in his strong arms and carried you into night's cool embrace. The breeze relieved some of your queasiness, but so much still swirled as deep as your bones. Jean steadied every woozy step and even caught you before you tripped on your dress skirt. When you laughed too loud at the almost-spill, a long, calloused finger against your lips demanded your silence. You so badly wanted to bite or run your tongue along that finger, but it disappeared from your hungry mouth when your feet hit the dock.

"Who let me drink so much?" you asked when you were allowed to speak again.

"You did."

"Why did no one stop me?"

"A good party is measured by how many attendees are sick when the night ends. If I had stopped you, I would only ruin your fun," Jean chuckled, but much more quietly than you had.

Once you reached the dock's edge, he assisted your descent onto the boards. His warm hand ran over your spine in soothing caresses while you watched millions of stars and a large Moon ripple in soft waves.

"Think of disgusting things. Full chamberpots, rotting food, garbage in the heat: those kinds of images. It will help your stomach empty."

"I don't want to be sick. You'll think I'm disgusting, too," you slurred.

"You could vomit in my lap, and I would still call you beautiful before I send you off to bed. You do look beautiful tonight. Even when your eyes began crossing after you finished that bottle."

"That isn't the compliment you think it is."

"I think it is the kindest compliment I can give–to call a beautiful woman beautiful even when she is at her sloppiest."

If anyone could twist nausea into a romantic feeling, it was Jean. His soft touches along your back held your skin together, and his other hand moved to your hair to twist back any strands from being tainted with regurgitations. But with each passing moment, the urge to chunder drifted into the waves. Your stomach calmed until you felt slightly soberer than where you started.

"Do you want me to stick a finger down your throat?" Jean asked when you failed to empty your stomach, and he ruined the atmosphere he had painted.

"No. I'm... I'm better now. I just needed to get off my back."

"Are you sure? If you are sick in the house, Niccolo will–"

"I'm sure," you paused briefly to watch the waves. "I'm sorry we barely talked all night... And that you have to take care of me now."

"If it were not for you, I would be looking after Armin. This view is much prettier."

You looked at the sky instead of its reflections in the waves as a silence set in. You studied the Moon, taking in whichever of her features could be made from the ground. She swirled in the air–her light rocking back and forth with the distant tides.

"We missed the Perseids," you mumbled.

"...The what?"

"The Perseids. Meteor showers. Shooting stars. They happen in mid-August, but we missed them. We could have made wishes." Raising a pointed, tipsy hand to the floating rock, you whispered, "That's a waxing gibbous. Can't wish on that."

Jean raised a brow at your statement. "The Moon?"

"Yes. It's a waxing gibbous. A waxing... gibbous."

"I see you know much about the sky," Jean teased, a touch of laughter warming his voice.

"Enough to share some things. I showed you the planets, remember?"

"How could I? Do you remember that I showed you a star when you failed to find one?" Jean wrapped his arm over your shoulder and pulled you close to his chest. "Tell me about the Moon, then–everything you know until you are mostly sober."

You told him everything you could offer in mostly unslurred speech. The reflection of the Sun; the shadows and silhouettes cast by eclipses and how rare they were; her lack of rotation; the phases of her face; her power to pull the tides. Everything you learned to become so envious of was from Levi's astronomy lessons in your youth and the previous guests' lectures when they occupied the cabins in the spring.

You talked and talked and talked, a quarter of your sentences interrupted by yawns, while Jean listened and listened and listened. He took in every word as though it was written in holy text–his eyes never leaving your lips, nose, and eyes. He never turned away to hide his shame whenever you caught him staring. Jean's full attention reflected off your skin and into gentle waves much more brilliantly than the Moon could ever dream of mirroring the Sun. When you ran out of things to say, you snuggled deep into his waves of clothes and allowed rolling, synchronized breaths to act as words.

There was still so much time to enjoy each other's company, as you had started drinking so early. Judging from the hours eclipsed, it could be as early as two—three at the latest. You could sneak back into the cabin, help Armin to his bed, drag Eren off to sleep on the porch or with the blond, and enjoy the rest of the night with the only man you cared to spend any long night with.

But something itched in your throat: a stupid question. Part of you was afraid of your lover's answer, but Armin's earlier inquiries regarding your whirlwind romance forced your tongue to sharpen and slice the blissful silence.

"Jean? Can I ask you something?"

"You may," he answered, barely loud enough for anyone else but you to hear. He was falling asleep.

You regretted bringing up the topic immediately, but curiosity got the better of you, just as it got the better of Armin. You pushed away to take in Jean's whole face when you asked, "When did you know?"

"Know what?"

"That you... that you were... Oh, what's the right word? ...Interested in me."

"And what has you wondering about that?"

"...Armin was asking–"

"Armin?" Jean cut you off, and sleepy eyes creased as a smirk formed on his full lips. "You are using his first name, as well? Should I be worried?"

"It depends on your answer." And although you attempted to fake a playful tone, your voice was saturated in trepidation.

Because what if you didn't like what he said? What would you do if the answer was embarrassing or ugly? What if he only knew recently, while you had been sure of your affections for some time?

Jean pushed air from his nose. "Do you wish to know when I first felt interested or when I knew I had to have you?"

I had to have you. God, that scorched your skin.

"Both," you answered, "But when you knew first."

"Ah... I knew when... do you remember the night we first watched over Martin and Sunny?"

"I do."

"And we were sitting in the parlor... talking and drinking?" You nodded. "And you finished your whole glass of wine in three pretty mouthfuls and spoke about your life and wishes?" You nodded again. "And then you... you touched me when you got up to take care of Martin. It was such a small pass, but an angel had laid her hands on me. That was when all my questions were answered, and I knew I needed to fix all I had broken."

"From a touch?" You didn't fully enjoy the thought of only being desired for your physicality.

"No. I had touched you before that night. It was the conversation... the look in your eyes... the way your voice carried through the room. Your hand on my thigh was the last of many nails in my coffin."

"Oh..." You had to drive your gaze into the sparkling water to hide your sheepishness because you fell deeply in love with that answer. You were adored for your presence. "So that's when you knew?"

"It was. And I first felt feelings for you when..." Jean stopped himself and pivoted. "You tell me first–when you knew."

When the table flipped, your eyes widened. Now that you knew his answer, and it was so much better than yours could ever be, you felt like a chicken without a head. Jean always had a way of holding his feelings up to your face in ugly and beautiful mirrors, but you still struggled to reciprocate, even after he admitted he fell for you first.

What were you going to say? What if he hated your answer?

"I... I..." you stuttered.

"You, you. Are you still unsure?" he joked.

You tore your eyes from the water to panic at Jean's smirk. "No! No, no, no, I just... I just..." You gave up hiding or running from him and gave up your fears without a fight, "What if you hate my answer?"

"As long as you are honest, I will cherish the thought. But, remember, I will know if you lie. Your voice will get breathy."

The weight of the world rested on your shoulders. Now, you could not come up with a better answer or lie and say your feelings washed to shore in tandem with his. You had to be honest with him.

Hitch and her blabbermouth on the beach had screwed you. You cursed Girls' Club.

"Well... I suppose I knew... the day before we went to the beach... I knew after I brought you to the cedar grove."

Jean appeared genuinely perplexed at your answer, and you wanted to die.

"Really? So soon?" he asked as he leaned in. "Are you sure?"

And you nodded before nervous words trickled from your mouth. "When I dropped Lucy off, and I was talking with Mrs. Yeager, it all just... clicked in place."

"What do you mean by that?"

"...You'll laugh at me when I explain the whole scene. It was so embarrassing."

"I suffered embarrassment all night, but if I get the urge to laugh, I promise to keep it in. Unlike you."

You took a heavy breath and explained yourself. You explained how you felt after spending the whole afternoon with him, how you convinced yourself he had feelings for another woman in town, how jealous and bitter that thought made you, how angry you were for falling for him, and how everything ached within you at the thought of loving a taken man. And when your rambling ended, and you were left panting from your explanation, Jean sucked in his lips with laughter hiding under each shaking inhale of his nose.

"You're going to laugh at me, aren't you?" you pouted.

"No," but there was some laughter behind his denial. "No, I... I thought you were smarter than that. You had to know–somewhere in your heart–that the whole day was all for you."

"Sincerely, I had no idea! I thought you were being overly friendly?"

"Overly friendly? I was hardly friendly." Jean picked up your jaw and brought your face so close that you could taste his lips despite the inch of space in between. "Does this feel friendly? Because that whole day, this was all I wanted. It was the only thing on my mind–holding you close and making you mine. And that was all I thought about tonight. Each time you stole my cigar and sipped your wine with your pretty mouth and drove me mad at the thought of just breathing the same air as you."

You shook your head, and his touch felt hotter with each heartbeat. He inched closer until the tip of his nose grazed yours, and your body caught fire.

"Should I show you how friendly I can be?" he asked your lips but didn't wait for them to answer.

Jean kissed you–slow and soft. He tasted so strongly of smoke and spirits that you found yourself craving cigarettes and whiskey with each bit of your heart he stole away. Your fingers laced through his hair as you pulled him deeper into your desire, and a few seconds lasted for an eternity.

Half of you died on that dock, and the remnants fell into the water and washed out to a distant shore, thousands of miles away, where everyone used silly words like chunder and sozzled.

And then Jean broke away and panted, "You should be off to your room."

"My room?" You nearly choked on your saliva. "You're sending me away? But you just kissed me! And you haven't even told me when you first had feelings for me?"

"You need to sleep. We both do before we do something we will regret in the morning. With everything you drank, you are sure to have a migraine in a matter of hours. Only sleep can cure that."

"Can't we go back to the cabin and sleep together?"

"And risk Yeager seeing us? Do you think he would be happy to see you wrapped around me tighter than my clothes?"

Eren. You had forgotten all about him passing out on the table. You loved your friend dearly, but the number of times he unintentionally ruined all your romance was growing bothersome.

"Eren's a heavy sleeper when he's drunk. I'm sure I could leave before he even stirred," you tried to reason. "And he's sure to find out eventually."

"Eventually," Jean relented slightly but not entirely. "But not tonight. Another time, perhaps. A time where he cannot ruin our fun with his meddling."

"You'll come back tomorrow then. Won't you?" you whispered, half-afraid that he might say no.

"If you have me, I will be here."

You would lose more hours you could never reclaim. The Moon would circle once more before you could try again, and you loathed the earth's rotation, but at least you had the promise of tomorrow.

"We shouldn't drink so much tomorrow," you whined.

"If..." Jean started, but nervousness clung to his voice as it had yours earlier, "If you... are still too drunk, I can help you to your room."

"But what if Niccolo should wake?"

"Do you expect me to let you stumble up the stairs on your own in your state? You will fall."

"So, you're afraid to let Eren find out about us, but you're willing to risk having Niccolo beat you within an inch of your life?"

"Either one would beat me if they should learn the truth. At least, with Niccolo, I know you would safely make it to your bed after I received a few bruises. Or broken bones."

It didn't take much convincing, as you were much more flexible than all the fools in your life. Jean carried you as his make-believe bride over the path, through the house, up the stairs, and into your bedroom. You had to stifle giggles as you planted butterfly kisses on his lips with each step. But when he gently dropped you onto the mattress, the sweet affections burned away into a pulsing fire in your stomach.

Imagine if he took you right there–in your own home. All your desperate pleas for his skillful tongue muffled into closed palms to keep your passions silent. There was a sensuality that came with such a risk, but Jean only planted a soft kiss on your brow.

"I will see you tomorrow, mon amour," he whispered.

Jean tried to pull away, but you clung onto his wrist. "You can't speak French without telling me what it means. I want to learn, too."

"When we can speak in real voices, I will teach you everything I know," he whispered, wriggling out of your grasp and snuck from your room in a giant shadow.

"Tell Lucy goodnight for me!" you tossed your last whisper at his back, but you doubted that he heard.

Maybe if you had chundered, or however that ugly word was meant to be conjugated, Jean would have kept an eye on you a little longer.

Now, you had no Jean, no Lucy, and no wine. All you could do was sleep and wait for tomorrow, dreaming of all the little things you should have done differently to keep your lover close.

While you waited for sleep to overcome you, your eyes drifted to your bookshelf and found a particularly dirty book hidden behind the rest.

There was one little thing you could have tried that was not so little in the grand scheme of things. Maybe tomorrow would be the day you finally showed someone how well you prepared for the future, but there were still some preparations to be done.

. . .

You woke up to bird songs and sun rays embracing your senses rather than violently stabbing them. How you escaped the deadly gallows of a hangover would remain a mystery for the end of time. Your guardian posed no real questions when you wandered downstairs for the late breakfast other than whether you had pleasant dreams and what you wanted to eat.

Again, Luck covered up your sins.

In the front of your mind, you had more sins you wanted to commit–all of which took place in a bed and without clothing. Unfortunately, as strong as your certain literature choices had been when instructing you in the art of passion, books could only teach so much. You needed someone with tangible experience. With Niccolo lurking about, you needed to leave the house to seek out that knowledge. Even more so, you needed a particular author to act as your accomplice so that Niccolo would trust you enough to leave.

However, Armin did not share your radiance when he dragged himself throughout the house and threw himself into a dining room chair. Niccolo remarked on Armin's terrible state, but the author groggily fibbed that he had stayed up all night editing his new novel and allowed spirits and cigars to keep him awake since coffee and tea were unavailable.

Niccolo threw together a prairie oyster for the Londoner to choke down. Although the idea was to help shake the hangover, the egg concoction only soured Armin further until gags filled the room. The chef fled into the kitchen, fighting suppressed laughter with each dry heave.

Once the dining room only hosted a pair, Armin looked through you rather than at you with dead eyes and whispered, "I curse you and your youth, Y/n. Every bit of it."

"You're speaking like you have decades on me. Maybe you should edit fewer pages in the future. That way, you won't end up three sheets to the wind," you spoke in code.

"Maybe you're onto something, my dear," Armin's wrinkled forehead collided with the table, and he whimpered a soft, "Ow..."

It was wrong to giggle at his misfortune, but you let your laughter lighten the mood. "Can I ask you for a favor, Mr. Arlert? You can say no."

"What happened to Armin?" the Londoner whined, his forehead still glued to the table.

You shushed him, snapped your neck into the kitchen, and watched Niccolo for a reaction. When the chef answered your anxiety with absentminded whistling, you redirected to the author. "I was going to ask if you would like to go on another walk with me. We can visit the Freudenbergs at their home today."

"A walk? In this state?"

"You can say no," you reminded him, but you prayed that your gentle voice might sway him.

Armin picked his head off the table and stared blankly. You blinked back with your softest smile and most enormous puppy-dog eyes. You could visibly see the beating of his migraine behind cerulean drums. He sighed a hefty sigh, lowered his head back to the table, and mumbled, "Give me an hour or two for the egg and spices to settle. Then, we'll go."

"Go where?" Niccolo asked from the kitchen–his hearing suddenly restored.

Every muscle skin tensed, but you forced your pleasant smile to stay firm. "Mr. Arlert and I were talking about visiting Hitch and–"

"Armin's in no condition to walk anywhere; even if he were, you are not to leave this house without my permission and company."

"But–"

"If you want to go, I'll take you. Should you get tired, we'll turn right around."

"But Mr. Arlert–"

"No more 'buts.' You should appreciate that I'm allowing you to go anywhere, considering all that's happened. Now, go upstairs, straighten out your attitude, and come back down when you're ready to leave."

That was the end of it. Niccolo would not hear your whining, so there was no point in wasting words. Now, needing a better cover to save your trip, you left the table. Trudging up the stairs and into the hall, you locked yourself in the sewing room and began working on the tiny clothes you had promised months ago. There wasn't much left to do, minus a few hems, so you quickly finished the alterations. Throwing them into a tightly bound sack to keep the nature of your gift a secret, you shuffled back downstairs to find Niccolo and be on your way.

To say the walk was uncomfortable was an understatement. Niccolo tried to converse regarding your stamina and what was in your sack, but you were too concerned with how you would escape his watchful eye to be alone with Hitch. What could you say to scare him off? Marlowe was sure to be out of the house, so you couldn't force the two men to converse while you snuck off into the kitchen. If you outright asked to have the room alone, he might become suspicious, and that wasn't a risk you were ready to take.

Even as you reached the Freudenberg's porch and gave the door a light knock, you had no idea what to say. Should you say Hitch needed to try on clothes? What if he asked to see your work before you handed it off–only to expose that you brought garments for a baby and not a woman? Should you say you had a rash you needed her to examine? If you said that, Niccolo would drag you off to find Dr. Yeager, and then you would have to lie further to skirt around the first lie.

Should you blame women's troubles? That wasn't a half-bad idea, but was it enough?

The door opened before you could devise a decent excuse, and the Freudenbergs' butler greeted you at the door. Your tongue still looped on itself, so Niccolo took the liberty of explaining your reason for visiting. The man showed you and your guardian to the parlor and quickly departed to fetch Hitch. You picked at your fingers behind your burlap-wrapped offering from an armchair while Niccolo made himself much more comfortable on the sofa.

Hitch flew into the room a minute or so later, and the light brightening her face glowed in such ethereal beauty.

"Y/n! Mr. Niccolo!" she screeched and threw herself onto your shoulders. "You came all this way to see me! I would say you shouldn't have, but I'm more than deserving of a little company!" She pulled away to view the bag in your hands. "And you've brought gifts! Oh, Mr. Niccolo, it's wonderful to see you, as well. I hope the weather is treating you well enough. My cook keeps saying it's much easier to bake with the consistent humidity. It's been so lovely this week ever since that terrible storm the other night."

"It has. Uncharacteristically balmy for August. Wouldn't you agree, Mrs. Freudenberg?" Niccolo asked.

"Oh, drop the surname—makes me feel like an old woman. I'm still the same girl that shoves tarts down my throat until my stomach swells," Hitch joked, but the mossiness of her eyes withered to stone when they flicked between your hands and Niccolo. "I hate to ask a guest to work while visiting, Mr. Niccolo, and I know you've taken a bit of a break from catering to look after Y/n, but is there any way you can whip up something for me? We have all sorts of fresh fruit in the kitchen, and I've had such a terrible sweet tooth as of late, and..." Hitch lowered her voice to a whisper, "The chef always burns the top of my pies. I'm starting to believe he's doing it on purpose."

Niccolo smiled before rising from his seat. "Of course, Mrs. Hitch, but bring the extras to your mother-in-law. She might still hold a grudge toward me for declining to bake for her tea parties in the last month."

You took back everything you said about Hitch's blabbermouth once Niccolo fled the room, as it had just saved you from lying.

"Alright, why are you really here?" Hitch inquired, but her previous kindness turned to worry. "I know you're here for something urgent. You've painted your cuticle red after all the hard work I did cleaning them up. You're anxious, aren't you? Is everything alright? Do I have reasons to be worried?"

You looked down to find blood ringing your index finger's nailbed. The color made you twitch, so you brought the finger to your mouth and sucked the metallic taste away.

After removing the finger, you asked. "Can we go upstairs? For more privacy?"

Hitch gestured for you to follow, and you trailed her up and into a guestroom. The click of the lock behind you released some tension from your gut, and a sigh escaped your lungs.

"What's wrong?" Hitch pushed.

"Nothing," you answered quickly, only to hand your bag over to the blonde. "I finished your commissions. For the... the..."

It crossed your mind that her condition might have changed with all the awfulness Hitch had endured at your bedside. Given what happened, would she have told you if she had lost her child?

"You're still... You are still..." but the word wouldn't come. You were too afraid to speak the idea of a miscarriage into existence.

"I'm still pregnant," Hitch confirmed, and a smile softened her. "I was worried that my body might be unable to handle the strains, but I've been fortunate enough thus far. Dr. Yeager said that everything appears as perfect as any mother could hope."

You huffed a sigh of relief. Hitch pulled open the bag and began sifting through all the garments you had stitched together before your life frayed at the seams. It wasn't much–only a few dresses, socks, and mittens. If you had more time, you would have pieced together a more substantial wardrobe, but Hitch appeared tearfully satisfied with your work.

"When did you have time for this?" she asked.

"Before. I finished some of the hems this morning, but most of the dresses were ready before we headed to the beach. I wanted to thank you for taking such good care of me the last few weeks. You are a blessing, Hitch."

Hitch clicked her tongue, wrinkled her button nose, and let the tears fall from her lashes. "It's really real, isn't it? You're really better, and I'm really pregnant. Soon, we'll be grandmothers."

"While I wish that last bit for you, I can't say I share the same hopes. I plan to enjoy youth for as long as possible after the season I've endured."

"Then you'll be a great-aunt to my little ones, and we'll sip tea on the porch and gossip in our sixties." Hitch laughed and shook her head. "Let me grab your payment for–"

"There's no need, Hitch."

"Oh, stop it. What kind of friend would I be if I didn't share my newfound wealth? I'm not going to let you walk out of here with nothing."

"Exactly. You won't let me leave empty-handed, as you hold a different kind of wealth other than what lines your purse. I... I was hoping I could ask you for some advice."

"Advice?" Hitch questioned. "You want advice from me? Is this a joke?"

"No, and I do... I require some... guidance... that only you can provide. It's why I was nervous about Niccolo being in the room. He can never know what we've... I've been up to. At least, he can't know until he absolutely has to."

Hitch's interest in the change of conversation dried her tears. "You are becoming more like me with your bargaining. Tell me what's on your mind."

"I need some help with..." And you turned a bit nervous as you whispered, "... With sex."

Hitch gasped, and all her teeth glimmered from her wide smile. "I can't believe this day has finally come. With whom?"

"With–"

"Oh, tell me it's Mr. Kirstein. Has he shown you the pictures he drew of you in his sketchbook yet? That man is so embarrassingly in love with you, he should be imprisoned, or better yet committed, for his obvious obsession." When you failed to answer, Hitch squealed, "So Sunny was right! We talked about your budding romance at Historia's farewell party, but to hear it's true! Oh, I have to tell her! She'll be thrilled to know she was right! Oh! And to think–Martin was right for asking in the end! You are having sex with Mr. Kirstein!"

You quieted the blonde, fearing Niccolo might hear through the walls, but she couldn't fight the vindicated giggles that escaped her lips.

"This is serious, Hitch."

"Oh, no, it isn't! Sex is meant to be fun, or silly, or awkward, but even then, it's at least humorous. If it's serious, you're doing something wrong!" Hitch eventually calmed herself, and no pounding came up the stairs to question her outburst. As soon as she was clear enough to speak, she asked, "Have you seen him yet?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. His equipment. His tool. His–"

"No," you cut her off, quietly adding, "... But I felt... it... the other night."

"It? You can't call his cock an 'it.' I can call it an it because it does not belong to me, but it makes you sound like a little girl when you can't say cock. And when did you have time to grope him, anyway? How did he even make it past Niccolo?"

"He comes to visit me... while Niccolo is sleeping... in the cabins."

"And for how long has this been transpiring?"

"... A few weeks," you answered.

"A few weeks?! I visited you almost every three days for a month, and I am only just hearing about this now!" You shushed Hitch again, and she returned to a whisper, "Apologies, but this isn't the type of thing you should keep from a friend, especially me. I know you've been mostly mute until recently, and I respect that you were healing, but you could have at least written me a note. How serious are you two? Have you discussed marriage yet?"

"No," you answered firmly. "It's much too early for me to think of such things." However, the breathiness of that second sentence betrayed your words.

Hitch wiped off her scolding expression as her eyes turned sympathetic and then dirty again. "So... You've at least felt him up, then? Was he sizable?"

To speak about such ordinary acts shouldn't feel so dirty and embarrassing. People have sex all the time, you reasoned, but it felt different hearing it from Hitch and men in the tavern as opposed to conversing about it from your point of view. Your skin was hot, your palms were wet, and your mouth was dry.

Hitch would never judge you, of course. If anything, she was even more excited than you, but the topic of Jean's size was still uncomfortable.

Your face burned despite being out of the Sun's reach. "Jean is very... well-endowed."

Hitch smirked at your use of Mr. Kirstein's proper name. "Well, of course, he is. A man as big as him is sure to have proportions to match. Has he seen you?" Your eyes darted away as your skin grew hot. "So he has. How much? Was he any good?"

"He's... also very talented... with his tongue."

Another gasp sucked the air from the room, and Hitch's smile grew wider. "So we have much work and little time to do it. Wait here. I need to grab something from the garden. Won't take more than a minute."

Hitch sped from the room, and when she returned, she held a massive cucumber. From there, you received the most nerve-racking lesson, all with fruit in your hands.

Pull back the skin, if needed; adjust your hand's pressure based on his praises; swirl your tongue even when your mouth is full; wrap your lips around your teeth to protect from accidental maiming; hollow out your cheeks; make plenty of eye contact with wide lids and curled lips; ensure there is plenty of lubrication once you graduate to higher levels; expect there to be pain and maybe even some blood, but try not to tense up; vocalize about your wants, wishes, and woes; have him withdrawal early to avoid unwanted mistakes; ensure your pleasure is just as valued as his, if not more so; visit the outhouse when it's all over to prevent an infection. But most of all–and Hitch stressed this more than anything else– be confident, even if you feel overwhelmed.

"Confidence goes a long way," she told you. "You could have not even the faintest idea of what you're doing, but if you seduce him with self-assuredness, your Romeo will be none-the-wiser to any lack of practice. Believe me. Even better, ask Marlowe when he comes home for lunch. We should have cucumber sandwiches alongside our sweets to celebrate your transition into womanhood. So..." Hitch stole the fruit from your hands to wave it in your face, "Hungry?"

. . .

Armed with an uncomfortable amount of knowledge and a stomach full of cucumber sandwiches and freshly-baked pastries, you returned home and dove straight into literature. Every word of your hidden erotica felt the academic glide of a finger. You studied the positions, the dialogue, and the sensations such acts should conjure. Only some things suited your taste, but with a bit of confidence, you were hopeful that you'd find a way to throw a decent experience together. You had been intimate with your lover once without any proper practical knowledge, and although the ending was painfully macabre, the next time would be different.

It had to be. You wouldn't accept another waking nightmare.

Night came quickly with the assistance of a nap. Niccolo fell asleep without the usual aid of medicine, and you ripped through outfits for the second night in a row. You settled on a royal blue dress that, when corseted tight enough, exposed your breasts enough to seduce the most pious man in all of New York. In preparation for the night, you dabbed oil on each pressure point and raked a few drops through your scalp. You put the extra effort in choosing your most excellent layers of undergarments and pulling up your prettiest, laciest stockings for added effect and even slipped on a pair of heels before you stepped foot out of the house.

But when you snuck out to the lake and entered the brightened cabin to find three men seated around the table with uncorked bottles,  and full wine glasses, you felt overdressed and frustrated. Your eyes passed between the congregation you weren't aware you would be joining. Eren gave you a one-eyed squint with a dragging frown, Armin smiled with mostly-recovered lids, and Jean just stared.

No discernible expression painted your artist's features; he was blank canvas beside his mouth parting open slightly.

"What's with the outfit?" Eren asked–shuffling a deck of cards as he spoke.

"I... I just wanted to wear something nice. It's been a while since I looked decent," you breathed.

"That's stupid. You got all dressed up just to take it off in an hour or two? Girls..." Eren trailed off, shook his head, and began dishing out cards. "Wan a to play Old Maid with us, or should I deal you in the next round?"

"Next round," you answered stiffly.

Throwing yourself into the only empty chair between Eren and Armin, you rested your jaw in your palm and watched the game unfold. Every so often, you would glance across the table to find Jean's eyes anchored into the swell of your chest.

At least, if you could not enjoy the night alone with him, he could enjoy the view he paid for.

In the middle of the game, Jean fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair. His attention, which had been trained on you for so long, shifted to his lap. Then, his attention hit the floor with a soft thud until something tugged at your dress. When you looked down, you found golden eyes peering up at you from under the table. Scooping Lucy up and placing her on your lap, the kitten pawed and rubbed into your bust with the loudest purrs you had ever heard from her. She must have sensed your disenchantment and wanted to purr it away.

Eren and Armin finished their wine quickly and refilled their glasses with each exchange of hands. You and Jean sipped slowly and not at all, respectively. When the next game of Old Maid came, you again declined the offer to join in. All your good preparations were useless, so any enthusiasm you had dried into dust. Another round came and went, and again, you denied entry.

"Should we play something more to your liking, Y/n?" Armin asked you.

"I'm afraid I'm not particularly in the mood for card games tonight."

"Not even Poker?" Armin's voice was sweet as he tried to give you another option; it was apparent that he, too, wanted to transform your disinterest.

You rolled your eyes but decided to stop acting grumpy due to sexual frustration. "Oh, why not."

"What's Poker?" Eren questioned.

"Jean?" Armin tried to steal his friend's attention. "Would you mind explaining the rules to him? You're better with explaining."

Jean didn't answer Armin's request, as he was too busy tracing the top edge of your dress. You fought the urge to smile at his obvious obsession, as Hitch so lovingly put it.

Armin asked again, more forcefully the second time, to which the painter responded from his trance with, "Hm?"

"Can you explain Poker to Eren?" Armin repeated, but slower. "You're better at explaining the rules."

Jean bumbled through hands and betting, but Eren was somehow blind and deaf to the Frenchman's stained cheeks and awkward stutters. Your friend went through scenarios, asked plenty of questions, and cleared up as many confusions as he could before playing. Jean made a few errors when responding, which Armin quickly set straight each time.

"So, if betting is a big part of the game, how are we going to play without money?" Eren asked his last question.

That time, Armin answered, "We can play with other things. Torn up paper, embarrassing stories, sips of wine... clothes."

"Clothes?" you asked, suddenly interested.

The thought of bartering garments sounded enticing. If you could not touch your lover's bare skin, you could at least show him some of yours. All your layers would end up in a pile by Jean's shoes each time you threw a game until he saw everything you had not had the chance to uncover. It was unfortunate that Armin and Eren would catch glances, too, but you reasoned that foreplay was foreplay, regardless of who was around.

"We are not betting clothes," Jean butted in, instantly destroying your dirty plot. "There is a lady here. It is wrong to make those bets in her company."

With a nasty smirk as he eyeballed his red-faced companion, Armin teased, "If we lack the funds to play a real game, clothes can serve as a simple substitute. We can always stop before anyone sees too much of each other. If Y/n doesn't mind, why not have a little fun for free?"

"I don't mind," you answered a little too quickly.

"I do!" Eren added. "I've seen enough of your chest tonight as it is. Can't you go back to the house and put something else on? It's making me... uncomfortable."

Knowing that Eren would fall for the bait, you chirped, "When I steal your shirt, I can put that on for you, little boy."

"Oh, please. I'll beat the snot out of you, Y/n. You know what? I'll wager my socks for the first–"

"We are not betting clothes," Jean gritted much more darkly the second time. "Armin, where do you keep your bills? I will pay you back before we leave."

Armin's smirk fell. "The larger of my two suitcases. Should be on top of the undershirts."

Jean's chair screeched against the floor as he stood up. Your lover stomped off in search of money, and you watched his stiff, retreating back with annoyance. Did the thought of seeing you bare not arouse any excitement in him the way it did you? Jean didn't mind whenever you fell into his arms in sheer nightgowns, but now it was some colossal issue when it was a prize to be won rather than freely given. Were you not worthy trophy?

When Jean returned, you refused to look at him. You fully acknowledged that it was childish, but you felt spurned. You ignored the long fingers that slid over your stack of cash and dealt your starting hand while simultaneously pushing your chest together to distract him with each raise, call, and check. If you could not play the game your way, you would at least try to beat your lover for rejecting you.

Unfortunately, all your usual luck had been spent on getting away with crimes. Practically your hands were worthless, and although you attempted to fake good fortunes, Jean never took the bait. Once he focused on the game, his eyes landed on every part of your body but your breasts. He noticed each time you pursed your lips when you failed to throw down so much as a pair or how your eyes twitched with every useless card he flipped over.

You had traded ways of reading each other. You stole his ability to see the world in millions of shades, and he stole your ability to observe even the slightest change of expression.

And it drove you mad.

Eren had better luck than you, but his skill was lacking, which only slightly lessened your defeated feelings. His funds dwindled quickly, as he was too obvious when his hands were good and too dejected when his hands were terrible. Red ears always gave away bluffs, and ego-fueled overbetting drained his funds. Each time he lost, the green-eyed fool drank to cover up his embarrassment. It didn't take long for him to border on belligerence in his whining insults toward the Frenchman across the table.

Armin joined Eren in a drunken stupor not long after, as the blond was too light-of-weight for his thirst. The Londoner accumulated a decent winning before he began giggling, but his game slipped the closer its end approached.

And while they relished in their fun, you fanned away the heat with a firm hand and pursed your lips together. Even as Eren passed out on the table again and Armin hobbled from the cabin with his cash to sleep off drunkenness, an air of resentment radiated from your aura. Your former love of parlor games no longer mattered, and neither did winning, as you lost the moment you saw Eren and Armin.

Not because you were frustrated with their company but because they cost you even more precious time.

Jean, however, was smug and unaffected by the ticking clock. Once he straightened the cards, he counted his bills one by one. The sliding of paper between his hands worsened your growing temper. You drove your attention into your lap, where Lucy nibbled on the rippling blue of your dress. She would probably put a tiny hole in the skirt, but you couldn't care less. The night was already ruined–one void wouldn't make it worse.

"What is troubling you?" Jean asked over ruffling papers. "You have been twitchy for the last half-hour."

"I'm surprised you noticed with how intently you were staring at your cards," you coldly answered, and the money stopped crinkling.

"Look at me," Jean ordered, but you kept your eyes on Lucy. "Y/n, stop acting like a child, and look at me."

"I'm not acting like a child." But you knew you were; you were even pouting as you watched the kitten chew. "Did you know I'm wearing more lace underneath my dress than I previously knew I owned, and my waist is so tightly cinched I can barely breathe? Yet, despite my best efforts, you turned down the opportunity to relieve me of the extra weight. Not to mention, we haven't had a second alone until now, and even that isn't entirely true."

"Y/n, look at me." You didn't fulfill his stupid request, opting to stroke Lucy's back and study each bristle of her fur. "How was I supposed to know you wanted to be alone? I thought you would enjoy being around Yeager after being apart for so long."

Your tensed eyes finally met Jean's face, and although he appeared sympathetic to your frustration, annoyance encircled his irises.

"Of course I do," you answered, "But our time is much more limited. We must make the most of every moment before we part ways, and these nights are all we have left. You leave in how many days now?"

You watched as Jean came to the same realization as you. Although time moved slowly when you both shared a room, it would never grind to a halt. It would continue ticking until he was due to return home, and you were stuck in this place. There was no avoiding, outrunning, or fighting.

Endings were just another inevitability of life, and yours was drawing close.

Jean eventually replied, "Four days."

"Four days," you repeated, and the number stung. "So, do you understand why I might feel the slightest bit frustrated? We've wasted so much time hating each other and being too intimidated to be candid with one another. These last few nights, where we can be entirely authentic and vulnerable, should be special. Not that this wasn't special, but... Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

"I do. I understand. I am so–"

"Don't say you're sorry. I've heard those words from you enough, and you've done nothing to warrant an apology. I want you to understand why I'm behaving this way—to understand me." Your temper finally cooled, and a dry laugh escaped your lips. "If anything, I should be sorry. You've spent quite a bit on my sour mood tonight, haven't you?"

"You are worth paying for," Jean answered. He placed his winnings on the table and sauntered to the edge of his bed. He tapped a seat beside him for you to join, and you followed with Lucy cradled in your arms.

Sitting side-by-side, he wrapped his arm over your shoulder to pull you and your shared kitten into his chest. Jean warmed your scalp with his breaths.

"You smell nice. Did you do that for me, too?" he asked, then placed a chaste kiss on your forehead before driving your cheek into his collarbone.

"Eren's right at the table, you know," you reminded. "Aren't you still scared of him beating you senseless?"

"Not as much anymore–you were right about him being a heavy sleeper," Jean's voice rumbled against your ear. "I kicked him after you left last night to ensure he was still alive, and he hardly squeaked. We can share a few embraces without worrying."

Confidence, you reminded yourself. Be confident, and Jean will be none the wiser to your lack of practical knowledge.

"Only embraces?" you questioned with confidence. "I believe we can do better than forehead kisses and embraces from the side."

"Did you have something else in mind? I can think of a few things I would enjoy doing to you, but–"

"I had a few things planned. Would you like me to show you?"

"As you wish," Jean said with secretive anticipation padding his voice.

You slipped away from Jean. Cradling Lucy in your arms, you walked her to the little washroom in the cabin's corner. You stowed her safely inside, closed the door to keep her in, and glided back to the bed.

"Why did you lock her away?" Jean questioned.

"I wouldn't want her thinking less of me," you answered as you draped your skirt over Jean's lap.

Straddling his thighs, you cupped his jaw in your fingers. You ran a thumb over his bottom lip, then swiped it over his growing shadow. Each needle prick of his hair sent euphoria racing through your blood. You locked gazes, his cheeks burning red and pants growing stiff with each pass of your hand.

Leaning close to his lips, you whispered, "She can never know that her mother is a real whore."

[WARNING: SEXUAL CONTENT]

You kissed Jean as you rolled your hips against him, and he whimpered into your mouth with each wave. It only took a few rocks to feel his hardening cock rub against your thighs. A string stretched from your heart to your center, and each muffled moan pulled the thread more taut.

As your tongues danced, your deft fingers furtively unbuttoned Jean's vest. He had no idea what you had done until you slipped the black fabric from his shoulders and pushed up his undershirt. You left his mouth to stamp out a litany of wet kisses down his scorching skin. The further you edged off his lap and journeyed down his well-defined muscles and thickening trail, the lower you slid off his body until your knees hit the cabin floor.

Once your kisses reached the top of Jean's trousers, you slotted yourself safely between his legs—smoothing his thighs with gentle hands. He sat straight on the edge of life, watching your fingers roam over his clothes before replacing your mouth with fingertips on his final set of buttons. As you pulled away to take in his perfect blush, the stiffness formed under the cloth stole your attention instead.

"May I?" your voice came out smokey, and when you peered up at him, his eyes matched your tone.

His pink skin; his hazy eyes; his tousled hair—

God, Jean was beautiful.

Could a man be beautiful? You supposed the right word was handsome or maybe arousing, but that didn't suit the hue that stained his pretty cheeks and locks. But could a man be pretty? A drawing could be pretty, and Jean was just as stunning as any sketch in his notebook. Before he left you, you should ask him to draw himself, although his physical presence was much more preferred. You would keep the picture close to your heart whenever your mind failed to paint his perfect features.

Could a man be perfect?

Jean stuttered in his perfect accent, "What... what do you.. what are you... going to—"

"I'm going to pay off my debt to you," you whispered before ringing your finger around the brass blocking your perfect view. "Now, may I help you undress, or would you prefer your payment in cash?"

Jean turned his head to study the lump Eren had formed on the table. Your lover watched for any signs of life coming from the drunk through bated breaths. Lust was clouded with a thin veil of apprehension, but the longer the pile remained still, the stronger desire's gales blew. Jean finally redirected his attention at you with pupils large and dark.

"You may," he breathed.

Your teasing smile turned devious at the encouragement. Fingers nimbly did away with the buttons, and as soon as the lock was freed, you hooked your fingers into layers of fabric and pulled.

All your sensuality and confidence disappeared into a dry mouth once Jean's pants formed a mound over your skirt. Reading erotica under moonbeams and listening to Hitch's graphic depictions under sunrays had only prepared you so much for this moment.

But it was hardly enough.

Jean was a tall man, and he was a broad man, too. You expected a decent size based on those two truths alone. Your hands had already massaged his hardness through clothed barriers, but to see naked flesh with naked eyes–you were petrified. Even if you wrapped both hands around with plenty of space for each finger to fully pleasure him, there would still be room for half of a third. Maybe all of one.

How the hell was something so large supposed to fit anywhere inside you?

You pushed out a shaky sigh, and the breath on bare skin forced a whimper from Jean's tightened throat. Bravery filled your breast upon hearing him so enchanted by a tiny gust of air. Even if you couldn't take all of him, at least it wouldn't take much to affect him.

He would be none the wiser to your lack of experience.

"If it is too–" Jean tried to choke out, but you wrapped a hand around his base and pressed lips to his glistening tip in a slow kiss before he could finish his thought. "Fuck. You feel so... so..."

Good, was the word you hoped for, but it never came. Jean struggled too much with his thoughts to huff any adjective out.

You rolled your hand over his skin, unsure how sensitive the sensation might feel. Muffled whines and jumbled curses snuck through tensed lips the more you stroked, so you assumed you were doing something right. You tightened your grip, only for the pleas for more to turn even more desperate.

"Would you prefer I used my mouth, too?" you asked through coy lashes.

All you received in reply was hazy eyes and a nodding head, so you lowered your lips and trailed your tongue over pulsing veins. Jean threw his head back as your river gleamed under hot flames. You continued gliding your hand and dragging your tongue more fervently with each sweet whimper that kissed your ears. Your free hand snuck into your undergarments in your eagerness to massage already-soaked folds. You desired Jean's tongue far more than your fingers, but you could wait another night for such pleasures when you could scream your praises without fear of waking a drunken fool.

"Y/n, you are... you are so... Mon Dieu, j'ai besoin de toi," your lover moaned as he entangled his long, calloused fingers in your hair.

But, despite his grip on your head and heart, you removed your mouth and slowed your hand. From underneath his shaking muscles, you sent up a deviant look from Hell.

"No French, Mr. Kirstein. How can I know you're enjoying yourself when speaking another tongue? Try again."

Jean winced down at you, his lungs struggling for air. He closed his eyes tight and mumbled, "I said... I said, 'I need... I need you.'"

"Good boy," you praised him and returned your tongue to his throbbing cock as a reward.

From there on, Jean followed every one of your movements with honeyed lust. You split your time between paying attention to your work and meeting his gaze with batting lashes and desireful smiles. Each time irises connected, you felt him surge along your tongue. You could only imagine what he'd do if you fully took him in your mouth while keeping your eyes fixed on his.

He might just burst at the seams with passion.

You planted three last kisses over his veins before stopping at the tip. You drew circles with your tongue over the head, shoving whatever nervousness lingered in your stomach into the abyss.

Because you wanted to go further. No, you needed to go further. You needed all of him more than you needed to breathe. You needed to feel everything there was to feel before you could never touch him again.

"Be vocal if anything feels wrong," you ordered before you licked your lips.

Wrapping flesh around your teeth, you took as much of your lover into your mouth as possible. Jean pulsed the more you swallowed–his cock twitching on your tongue with every wag. As his eyes nearly rolled back in pleasure, you slipped two fingers into your cunt. Your moan vibrated over his shaft from your own stimulation, and Jean lost control of his tongue.

"Putain de merde, Y/n," he moaned. "Baise-moi avec ta bouche parfaite."

You stopped inching his cock down your throat and swirling your tongue at his French. You waited briefly with wide eyes for him to translate, but his desperate transfixion on your face was so strong that you forwent any punishment.

For now, anyway.

You pushed yourself to take another inch of him, but you started to choke. You watched part of his soul leave his eyes through your tears when you gagged on his size. You held in place, seeing how mesmerized he was with how deep you went, before relieving the pressure and bobbing in a steady rhythm. His fingers gripped harder into your hair, but he allowed you complete control of the speed. Saliva leaked all along your jaw and spread over his hardness. For every inch your throat lacked the practice to reach, your hand diligently worked to satisfy.

Even threw rugged breaths and pink-stained ecstasy, you and your lover never broke eye contact for more than a few seconds. His soul reached deeper for yours with every pulse of his flesh. He gripped the bed's sheets, fighting some urge in his body each time you moaned or gagged.

Jean's desperation and helplessness brought out the worst, or maybe the best, in you.

"Merde, je vais jouir," he whimpered, finally leaving your face to throw his head back and grip your hair even harder. "Y/n, stop. I am close to... Fuck, I... I..."

But you continued sucking. He had tasted you, and you wanted to return the favor in full. Jean groaned and threw his head back as cum spilled down your throat and coated your tongue. You swallowed Jean greedily as though he was the last drink you'd ever sample. You tried your best not to spill so much as a drop, but there was far too much to swallow in one go. With each shot, his seed leaked from the corner of your lips, adding to your sinful drowning.

When you felt Jean soften, you removed your mouth with a soft pop. You stuck your clean tongue out with your prettiest smile to prove how delicious he tasted to you; how much you craved the taste of him; how willing you were to fuck him with your mouth as soon as he was able to again and swallow every drop until his soul had  depleted into nothing.

Jean studied your lips and tongue as you waited between his legs. A shaky hand reached for your jaw to swipe away your jaw's messiness, and he held his pearly thumb out to you.

"Finish," he ordered. "Finish all of it."

You took Jean's thumb into your mouth and licked it the same way you took his cock. It was so much easier to smile with only a finger, so you made sure to show your appreciation. He stole back his thumb and used his clean fingers to brush away your messy locks.

"Tu es une vilaine fille–une si belle et vilaine fille. Une véritable déesse," he panted.

Jean's eyes wandered to the arm half-hidden under your skirt. He grabbed your forearm, brought the hand soaked with your wetness on the tips to his mouth, and sucked your fingers clean. He savored your taste just as you had savored his.

"Aren't you greedy?" you prodded. "You can't get enough of me, can you? Keeping all your little French secrets and stealing all my sweetness while you do it. You're bordering on obsession, Jean."

Jean's smirk turned so villainous once he removed your fingers from his mouth, and his eyes narrowed. "It is easy to obsess when–"

A moan from the other side of the room cut him off. Your head snapped to find Eren shifting in his seat. Fear replaced the confidence in your stomach, and you crawled under the bed like a child hiding from a nightmare. You saw Jean struggle to pull up his pants while Eren tapped his sleeping tongue.

"What's all the noise for? Where is everyone?" Eren yawned out of your shadowed view.

"They... Armin... Armin left for bed not long ago," Jean answered, obviously distressed.

"Where's Y/n?"

"She... She went with him. They left at the same time."

Eren slurred, "And what are you doing? Why're you half-dressed? And why are you sweating like that?"

Jean didn't answer right away. You watched his ankles nervously, afraid of what he would answer and if Eren would accept it as the truth.

"Changing," your lover eventually responded. "I was changing for bed. I fell asleep but woke up to change when I grew too hot."

Jean's over-explaining was so horrifically unconvincing that you had to press your palm to your still-wet mouth to hide any shaky breaths Eren might hear.

"Maybe..." Eren yawned and clicked his tongue some more. "Maybe you've got a fever. Or you have the night sweats. I don't know... Father can look you over in the morning."

A chair scrapped the flooring, followed by footsteps, and then a thud on the mattress echoed above you.

"You are not sleeping in my bed," Jean growled.

"It's not like I'm gonna cuddle you. You're the freaky pervert that tried to grope me in your sleep," Eren snickered to himself. "I bet you're just mad Y/n left with Armin. You must be pissed how much more she talks to him than you, and you're takin' it out on me. She probably left to try and give him some cuddles."

"That is–"

"I know I'm right," Eren cut him off. "You don't have to try and hide it. You know, sometimes I feel bad for you. If the girl I liked would rather shack up with my best friend... I'd be pissed, too... And another thing..."

The bedframe creaked, and you stopped breathing entirely. Sheets ruffled, and silence followed. You watched the floorboard for legs to swing over the edge and snatch you from your hiding place, but nothing came.

"I saw how you were starin' at her all night," Eren slurred, and you breathed again, knowing he wasn't getting up. "I don't hate you for it. I should, but I don't. You might be a French bastard and look like an ass, but you're a good man, Jean. I appreciate everythin' you've done for her. Honestly, I do. But let me make one thing clear: you try to intervene with her happiness–fuck over any chance she does or doesn't have with Armin so that you can get what you want–and I'll kill you myself. Y/n deserves to be happy. More than me; more than you; more than anyone. So steer clear, keep it to just eyes from here on out, and keep your mouth shut. Keep being a good man, or I'll make you a dead one. Got it?"

And while Eren said all that, the taste of Jean's cum still lingered on your tastebuds, Jean's spit still wettened your fingers, and your cunt was still wet from thoughts of recent passions.

"...Understood," Jean answered.

"Good... good..." The bed creaked again, more sheets ruffled, and Eren let out a final yawn. "Mother would be pissed if I killed you. She'd miss that soup she keeps making you cook. She likes not havin' to worry about dinner, you know? Makes her life a little easier. Can't say I blame her."

The conversation went dead after that. Nothing filled every shadow under that bed while you waited for a signal. You had no plans to come out until you knew Eren was fully asleep, so when Jean finally brought his hand down into your vision to wave you out, you were thankful to be free.

You crawled quietly, careful not to knock into anything or make too much noise. Jean didn't look at you as you crept out; he only stared at the floorboards, clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth. You peeked over the sheets to see Eren peacefully sleeping. Your best friend made himself terribly comfortable in the bed you planned to use at some point that night.

If you didn't have a tryst to keep secret, you would have ripped the blankets off Eren's body and shoved him out.

Jean's hand reached for your wrist and tore you out of the cabin before you knew what was happening. Night surrounded every one of your senses as the door clicked closed, and your back was forced against the cabin's wooden exterior. Your mouth no longer belonged to you only a second later, as Jean had stolen your tongue and lips for himself. He bit your soft flesh, dug claws into your arms, and jammed his knee between your legs to bar any hopes of escape until you were squirming and whimpering into his ravenous mouth.

This change that your sweet lover made–this switch from his gentle, considerate self and back into the violent, starving animal you had met months prior–both terrified and excited you. You knew that one wrong step could send you into an episode, just like the first night you were joined with him, but never before had pain brought out such a strong sense of titillation. It wasn't actual pain, but just enough to awaken something deep within you that craved more on every inch of your skin.

Without thinking, you started tugging your skirt upward and wrapped a leg around Jean to give him better access to your body. You stole one of his hands from your waist and placed it on your dripping cunt.

"Inside me," you broke off to beg–any pride or confidence you still had having washed out into the lake. "I need to feel you inside me. Please, Jean, I need to feel you."

"Then tell me you are mine," he orders, his voice hoarse and unyielding. "Tell me you belong to me alone."

"I'm yours," you cried, and his fingers glided over your clit. "There's no one else."

"Tell me your feelings for Armin are fucking gone."

"They're gone." Jean swiped against your jewel once more, and you could barely take the blistering anticipation burning down every one of your physical and imaginary walls. "You're the only one I want to make me feel this way. Please, Jean."

You guided his roaming fingers back to your entrance, and a digit slipped inside your soaked cunt. You can barely contain the squeal or the hitched breath that left your throat as he pumped his hand into you–over and over and over. You wrapped your arms over his neck, hanging onto and nipping at his shoulders for dear life as his hand fucked you against the cabin wall.

His thick, long finger fit perfectly inside you. The way he curled his index to reach your most mysterious places had you crying out in ecstasy, and his thumb massaging your clit even as he speared you into hysteria drove you insane.

God, where the hell did he learn any of this? Is this where all your luck went instead of aiding you in Poker?

The string tightened through your body with every one of Jean's motions, grunts, and curses. And all you could whine in reply was, "Just like that," and "It's just you," and "Jean, Jean, Jean."

Over and over, you cried out his name as though it were a prayer to him for more, blaspheming with four simple letters. His name would summon Gods from the Heavens to reclaim everything he desecrated with mortal hands. You begged him to steal your entire life until nothing remained but bones and memories. And other than those six tiny words and one single name, your mind was blank. You couldn't focus on new phrases or thoughts outside of that moment.

"Personne d'autre ne te fera te sentir aussi bien, compris?" he panted against your glistening skin.

Jean had taken control of every function–commanding every airy breath and fluttering heartbeat with only two fingers and a foreign tongue in his sacrilegious crusade. He dictated that your devotion would serve as the only acceptable offering as he wickedly worshipped your body.

"Jouir pour moi, ma petite pute," he huffed before slipping a second finger inside you.

The added pressure spelled your end. You nearly screamed as you climaxed onto his hand and only narrowly avoided waking up every single soul on your property when Jean muffled your cry with his mouth. You whimpered as the pace of his ministrations slowed but never ceased. He rode your high down with you, extending your orgasm as long as he could without rendering you unconscious from pleasure.

Your pillaged body still crumpled against the wall. Your panting, sweating, and twitching numbed any control you still had–ceiling to floor. Jean helped you down until your backside hit the ground. Vision wavered between nothingness and your new God, him slowly fading from dark possessiveness to light guiltiness in front of a moonlit lake.

You heard mumbles, but you couldn't make them out. Cloudy eyes blicked at Jean's lips. You couldn't read his words, so you stuttered, "I can't... I can't... I..."

"I am sorry, mon huître," Jean apologized, and you heard him that time. "I lost control... I..." You raised a trembling hand from your side. "I was too rough with you. I ruined–"

You placed a finger over his mouth and pushed out a shush. A stupid smile heated your already scorching cheeks. How could someone apologize for bringing Heaven to Earth for the living to enjoy and for gifting the weightlessness of death without spilling any blood?

"Shut your mouth, and help me take off my dress, already," you huffed as your shaking hands tried to loosen your corset. "I'm not finished with you yet. I have more planned."

Jean stole the hand fumbling behind your back. "Stop. This is not the time or place–"

"Yes, it is. We're both–" You paused to catch your breath. "Willing and eager, aren't we?"

"I will not make love to you for the first time outside on a wood slab. You... you deserve better than that, Y/n. You deserve–"

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do," Jean corrected.

"No, I don't," you repeat. "As long as it's with you, the venue doesn't matter."

"Then it matters to me. I... I should never have pushed you this far. I allowed jealousy to get the better of my actions because of Yeager's stupid, fucking..." Jean's voice grew frustrated, only to soften, "I could have hurt you, and you have felt enough pain."

"Maybe I enjoy a little pain when applied correctly," you teased, but when Jean's face turned serious, you knew you had said something wrong.

"You are going to bed. We can discuss this another time when we are both more in our right minds."

You weren't given a choice. Jean scooped your weak body off the ground and shouldered you straight to your room for the second night. He kept his eyes pointed forward through the short journey, and the ambiance was a broken mirror of the previous night. There was no adoration or fidelity—only regret.

Jean regretted touching you. You understood why–Fear had thrown your beloved out of kilter–but the knowledge did not make the tempestuous guilt any easier to wade through.

"It wasn't all bad, was it?" you asked before Jean could open the kitchen door to sweep you inside.

"No. The parts where you had control were... magnificent," he answered softly and left the door closed. "Tomorrow, you will lead."

"Tomorrow?" you perked up. "So you'll come back? You aren't upset with me?"

"I am upset with myself, not with you, Y/n. You and your pretty dress made the night decent. I was the one that ruined it."

Jean moved to open the door, but you stopped him. "Jean, I would hate for you to go to bed feeling guilty. You did nothing that I did not beg for. If either of us is guilty of pushing the other too far, it is me, not you." Your eyes flicked away to the tree line. "Maybe we should tell Eren. About us. Perhaps, he might hold his tongue if he understood. You don't deserve to be ridiculed the way you were, and if he knew–"

"He would kill me," Jean coldly answered.

"You don't know that. He wants me to be happy, and you make me happy."

Your beloved softened. "We can tell him another time–a better time."

"You keep saying, 'another time,' as though our time is infinite."

"Maybe it can be." He finally opened the door and placed a gentle kiss on your fading scar. "I will see you tomorrow, mon huître. And I will leave Yeager at home," Jean kissed your scar one last time before turning away.

"Don't forget to let Lucy out of the washroom," you remind him before sneaking inside on your own.

It wasn't a perfect night, but you enjoyed so much of those almost-final moments. You lay in bed, reimagining all your little intimacies while panting and drawing circles over your pearl. You reached climax again, and your walls ached as though Jean's fingers still curled within you. The pain was a reminder of how much ecstasy he could bring, but the regret in his eyes tainted the bliss.

Jean made you orgasm when he was gentle, when he was rough, and when he wasn't even in the same room. If you had to forgo one to keep the others, you were more than happy to live a life of gentle touches and imaginary sweetness for as long as time would allow. Because although your life was riddled with ends, the love you felt would never be one of them.

Our last days will be better, you tried to convince yourself. They have to be.

French Translations:

cerveau d'huitre = oyster brain

Gardez un œil sur ta mère, Lulu. Elle est beurrée = Keep an eye on your mother, Lulu. She is plastered.

Mon amour = my love

Mon Dieu, j'ai besoin de toi = My God, I need you

Putain de merde = Holy shit

Baise-moi avec ta bouche parfaite = Fuck me with your perfect mouth

Merde, je vais jouir = Shit, I'm going to come

Tu es une vilaine fille–une si belle et vilaine fille. Une véritable déesse = You're such a naughty girl–such a beautiful, naughty girl. A real goddess

Personne d'autre ne te fera te sentir aussi bien, compris? = No other will ever make you feel this good, understand?

Jouir pour moi, ma petite pute = Cum for me, my little whore

Author's Note: FYI, my posts are probably gonna take a wee bit longer since the chapters are gonna get a little thicker from here on out. I made a Tumblr page to post updates, so nobody thinks I've ghosted this story (unless I do at some point, but hopefully not). My username is ratboiradio, just like it is everywhere else hehe.

I'm still learning how to use it, so pray for me. That shit is lowkey hard for my tiny brain to figure out.

Anyway, slay. Love you all. Thanks for reading <3