❝𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘰𝘴, 𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴, 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦.❞
conflicting, that was all to say about this tale...
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𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐌 𝐈 𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔?
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10.6k words. mind a few errors.
"What news?" You ask Jean, your eyes settling on his own as you were fearful about what it could have potentially been. You understood you shouldn't be worried, as Jean always found pleasure in frightening the living soul out of you. However, at the same time, you weren't going to be amazed if you had to expect the worse — fate wasn't the slightest bit on your side.
"I'm hosting a party," Jean informs you, humming lightly as you listened in on him, focusing your full attention on him. A party? You wanted to go, but at the same time, what fun was it when there was Netflix? And anyway, why would you want to watch a few others get intimate in front of you? Or, watch 'him' prove the reason why his hysterical ex is who she is today?
"You're so dramatic, you made it seem as if I had gotten leaked or something. Sometimes, I hate you, Jean." You sigh, angling your hand as you felt them slightly stiffen.
Jean only softly laughs to himself as he succeeded in scaring you in ways you deeply hated — it was an ingrained hatred, he had never been able to decipher where it originated from. He knew you were on edge with the ghoulish form known as paranoia, but he still poked fun at you in ways for his entertainment. He was aware that unearthing your fears was inhumane. But at the same time, he watched as you slowly became desensitised to his wording, being able to endure a few of his predicted faults.
"Oh, but you love me." He taunted, bringing his finger to your cheek as you glared at him, your brows creasing at his words.
"Not after what you pulled," He nestles his finger on your cheeks again, a tint of colour staining his finger from your foundation.
"Jean Kirstein, I swear I won't hesitate to end you. If my makeup is on the line, you're dying," You state, watching as he glanced at his thumb, shifting it in your direction, as if he was gesturing for you to decide what to do with the tint. You grasp onto his thumb, pulling it closer to you before you rubbed the faint foundation off of the pad of his calloused thumb, your eyes heavy on his own.
