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six, trepidation

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...

When you finally make it home, there's this huge lift that falls off of your shoulders.

You're mind blown right now. Being in a car? Meeting an author? You're overwhelmed with happy feelings. Your legs wobble slightly from being in Jean's car, but you can't even consider it. You can't wait to tell Mr. Ackermann, honestly. This is huge.

You have yet to ask Jean what that was all about back at the bar. The way that woman was looking at him and things. Jean dropped you off, then left soon after. It was pretty late now, but once you got the lights on, you felt better.

You were hungry, but you had to get this damn dress off.

You stomped off down the hall to your bathroom, your heels clicking against the hard floor. Pointedly ignoring the back door, you stepped inside. You lock the door behind you, looking at yourself in the mirror. You hate rooms with open doors. You don't know if that's some form of OCD, but it bugs you.

You open the cabinet and reach for your make-up wipes. Once it's as off as you can get it with only a wipe, you slip out of your heels and dress, feeling significantly shorter. You give yourself a deadpan look through the mirror but continue this little routine.

You grab a rag and those things you put on your wrist to stop the water from running down them. You wash your face thoroughly, recalling the events of today.

Armin.

You huff, but as you get to your left cheek, you pause mid-way through. Armin.

You quickly wash everything off as fast as you can. You haven't heard anything around your house lately; you'd hoped it meant whoever was roaming around before left and planned on never coming back.

Or maybe one of the ghosts haunting this place got 'em. You fucking hope.

But that's not what's racing through your mind right now. Oh my gosh, how could you miss this?

You yank a towel off the rack and tug it around your body since you're in nothing but your underwear, and lately, you've been too scared to walk around like that. You're pretty sure you placed your bag on the couch in your living room when you first walked in.

You quickly walked towards the space and were happy to find your bag where you left it. You rummaged inside and grabbed your phone. You might be tripping; you're unsure if you're remembering correctly, but if you are...

You dial Pieck's contact and press it to your ear, hoping she's still up to answer as you rest a hand on your hip.

Except... she doesn't answer. She's most definitely off work, and you don't have her personal number, so,... that meant you'd have to wait until tomorrow to get a confirmation.

But you're sure you're not mistaken.

Armin's the one who bought all your art. Really, how many Armins are there in the world? You huff as you toss your phone back on the couch. Anonymous... is a fan.

That... is unbelievable.

Right as you start to move toward the kitchen, there's a creak that sounds somewhere above your head. The only place up is the attic. You haven't been up there once. Seriously, as a pretty open-minded person and although skeptical, you still believe there's a chance your place is haunted.

You live in an old manor.

Old means history. You're not stupid enough to believe nothing sad or evil has happened here.

And because you believe your place is haunted and you totally know it has something lurking around, you will never go up there. Ever. Scratch what you said about sea serpents; you'd be fucked if you willingly walked into the evil shadows in your attic.

You'll never go. Nope.

You're deterred from your journey to the kitchen as you remember, you're only in a towel. You quickly stomp up the stairs and push into your room. Immediately, you're met with a cold breeze that sweeps over you from head to toe. You can't help but freeze and shiver as you look behind you.

You find nothing there or down the hall, so you continue to your room. You ignore the attic and continue on to your closet. Opening the thing was nerve-wracking. Nearly every time you went to open up your closet, sweat would gather on your palms, a chill would creep its way up your spine, and you had to swallow to recollect yourself.

You go through that routine now, your hands wrapped around the handles as you pause with bated breath. Finally, your adrenaline climbs its way up the ladder, and your head feels airy enough for you to just do it. You swing the closet door open and step back a couple of times quickly.

Your wide eyes search frantically, but you huff aloud in relief when nothing visible is there. Seriously, you're contemplating getting a dresser. You'd probably have to rearrange some stuff for it to fit, but it beats nearly having a heart attack every time you open the closet.

You grab what you need to and promptly shut it back up again.

You look over at the window in your room and ponder if you should just take your chances and change here.

But, still, that thought that someone's just there watching haunts you. So, you walk out, prance down the stairs, and whip around the railing with your clothes in your arms.

Your eyes met with the bathroom door because that's where you were going, but something had you freezing in your tracks. Your brows furrowed, sweat began to gather on your forehead, and your eyes were pointedly glaring at the doorknob of your bathroom door.

Slowly but surely, you lift your eyes and look down the hall.

It's dark, the moonlight trying desperately to sneak its way in, yet struggling, just like how it was when you walked in and how it's been this entire time.

Except now...

Oh, God, now...

There's a chair just off to the side, almost out of view but just enough for you to see. But, the thing is, you're not supposed to see anything except the back door and windows. The furniture is hidden by the walls, that's how you had it.

Your lips are parted and dry, and the only thing you can do is lick them anxiously. You and the shadows are having a staring contest, except you lost a few times now. You blinked too many times, hoping maybe you were tripping and nothing was really there. But no.

The shadows begin to... communicate with you.

There's a shift in the darkness... perhaps.. something moving.

From what you can make out, after a terribly long second... is a leg. It shifted outwards... so the being was man-spreading on your chair.

Fucking man-spreading.

The way you swallow is your response. The translation is the fact that the being casually moves its leg as if getting comfortable in your home, on your chair... almost daring you to do something about it. But you can't. You don't have the guts.

What do you do?

Well, you would scream if your voice wasn't trapped in your throat.

For fucks sake, you were still in your underwear. The towel around you does little to make you feel less exposed.

Suddenly... a hand... sneaks its way into the light streaming from your living room but clearly not meeting the sectioned-off part of your home, and you realize, with wide eyes, that they're wearing gloves. Black leather gloves.

For a second, it's just their displayed palm, their fingers pointing towards you as if trying to get you to only focus on their hand for a second. It works; you can't tear your eyes away from the only thing you can see.

Slowly, their hand makes what looks like a gun with their movements, except their palm facing upwards.

You tremble, lips still parted, as their middle and pointer fingers come to a curl, and with two quick movements, they're beckoning you.

That's all they do, but they leave their hand out for you to see.

Was this really happening? Are you— are they seriously asking you to come closer? You're about to back away and start running to grab a weapon or something- something that would suggest you have a brain when they flip their hand over and point toward the ground.

It's one harsh movement, but it's obvious what they're saying.

No, ... they're not asking you...

They're telling you.

ARMIN'S POV

My lips can't help but pull into a smirk of amusement.

Watching from a place she'd never wander into if she could help it, watching her squirm with fear at Eren's... display.

I want to know what she's going to do now. Will she listen like a good girl?...

No.

I know better. Girls like her don't just know how to be good in this situation. I don't blame her. She thinks Eren's there to kill her. Kind of like... how a lamb is to a lion. Merely prey. Doesn't stand a chance, but she's oblivious to just how dangerous we are.

It's adorable.

She doesn't know how far we'll go. She's, no doubt, thinking of ways we'd kill her... oh, what a marvelous game this is.

I love that she doesn't know what we really have up our sleeves. She doesn't know what's anticipated, just that there's something to expect, making her squirm and tremble.

It's not surprising when, eventually, I see her bolt in the opposite direction. This whole fiasco is like a game I control from behind the scenes. Like a game I rigged. I know what move she'll attempt next.

Will it work out in her favor?

...She hopes it will.

She grabs a knife, and by the way she's frantically glancing around, most often toward the door, she's trying to imagine ways to escape unscathed. But she's still in Eren's eyesight. And unbeknownst to her...

In mine too.

Eren stands, and Y/n instinctively jolts back as she watches the shadows grow impossibly larger and somehow darker.

She mutters, "Stay back..." but they don't hold much power behind them. Without even seeing him, I know Eren's smirking devilishly at the sight of her like this.

She backs up further, gradually making her way to the door. Eren doesn't move much, but his hair falls into the light, though he has to be careful... if she were to see his eyes, she'd know.

She'd know exactly who he was.

His hair is straight and out of his bun; she's never seen him like that. We doubt she'd connect the dots.

Like a creepy little shit, he lets her see both of his hands... bringing his fingers together to make a heart. I didn't give him that idea... he's just like that. Still, I smile from behind my laptop, where the cameras, motion sensors, and the bugs planted in her house are connected.

Her lips snap shut, and she shivers violently. But before she can do anything or process what the fuck she just saw, Eren turns around slowly as if he doesn't have a care in the world. As if he's not the least bit afraid of her or the kitchen utensil in her hand.

I must admit, albeit only to myself, even though he gets on my nerves sometimes... he's bad.

And that's hot.

Y/N'S POV

"What the fuck," you gulp, your hands still shaky and suspended in front of you.

LilReaper_

Originally written  07.17.24

Published 07.17.24

total words; 1890

Another chapter to make up for yesterdays short one!

I appreciate the votes and comments pookies 💖💖💖