#pronly

Chapter 6 of PR Only

The rehearsal space smells like dust and hot electricity, with a shitty air freshener mixed in the stale air. 

Everything is concrete and the cables that run through the room are a tripping hazard. There are half broken stools not safe enough to sit in and amps that are louder than they should be. 

You’re high enough that the sound rattles your bones when it buzzes through your ribs. The sound of Jean’s guitar sounds muted in your ears, and Eren’s screams crawl under your skin. 

You lean against the concrete wall, mindlessly watching Connie play the drums. Your knee-high leather boots sound loud on the floor when you shift your weight. The mesh tights feel tight against your legs and the black mini skirt makes you want to rip your skin off. 

Your boobs are nearly falling out of the black corset cinched tight around your waist. It’s supposed to make you feel more put-together while high, but your cleavage is the first noticeable thing about you right now. 

The leather jacket around your shoulders creaks with every move, louder when you slide down to sit on the floor with your back against the wall. Your lips are wrapped around a lollipop, rolling it between your teeth in hopes of dulling the sourness in your mouth. 

You’re sitting on the floor, not even a chair or a rug, just solid concrete cold against your skin. Your skirt bunches up, boots digging into your thighs after you cross your legs. The lollipop clicks against your teeth, but it barely tastes like anything besides cheap sugar to keep you distracted. 

You look over at Armin, who’s adjusting feedback and glancing over the rim of his laptop to make sure that the band sounds good. You just learned that he’s the sound engineer. 

You don’t bother looking at the band perform because your head throbs and muscles ache. You unlock your phone without thinking. The glow is too bright in the dark warehouse and your thumb scrolls automatically. You want to see what people are saying about you because nothing will ever feel as bad as the crushing weight of grief on your lungs.

You check Instagram first. Pictures of Eren dragging you around Rodeo Drive fill your feed. You almost look like you belong. The comments stack on top of each other.

PR whore. He downgraded. She looks like a junkie. Is this the same girl from brunch? embarrassing. You can literally see the life drain out of him when she’s around. This is the start of his flop-era. She has no identity outside of him.

When you check TikTok, the comments feel more ignorant. It hurts more because they almost sound reasonable.

I hope she gets help when he leaves her. Is she too high to understand what’s happening? she's doing way too much. I’m tired of seeing her everywhere. This era is ugly.  why is she always THERE she’s like an unpaid intern.

You almost feel desensitized to the negative publicity. Being high makes it hurt less, and it makes them feel kind of funny. 

Eren rolled you a blunt before rehearsal started and you both shared it in his car on the way to the warehouse. He’s enjoying the high more than you are right now.  

You lock your phone and set it face down on the floor. You should be more grateful for this, for having a place to live now and having more money than you would’ve ever seen in your entire life. 

Your fingers twitch in your lap while Reiner works through the bassline again, vibrating through the concrete floor. You wish Sasha was here so you wouldn’t feel like excess weight in the room, a mistake everyone’s refusing to address out loud.

Every so often, the sound fractures. 

A chord buzzes wrong. A lyric comes in half a beat late. Eren’s voice cracks on a line he’s never missed before.

You keep your eyes on your chipped black nail polish as your fingers twitch against your thighs. You never look up no matter how frustrated the rest of the band sounds or how obvious Eren’s mistakes are becoming. 

“Let’s redo that,” Armin mumbles again for the third time, already reaching for the soundboard. 

The song starts again. Jean’s guitar cuts sharp in the introduction. The first few seconds are perfect. Connie drums the beat harder, Reiner’s bass hums low, Jean steps forward for his lead. 

Until Eren misses a lyric. A full line swallowed by silence.

It’s barely noticeable, but Jean instantly snaps his head toward Eren. 

“Eren,” he barks across the stage. “Focus! For fuck’s sake!”

You press your palms into your thighs and pick at your tights, something to distract yourself from how uncomfortable you feel. 

“Again,” Armin says softly. 

Eren counts in before the music starts again. 

You notice the slip ups before anyone else does. The silence where a lyric should be, the drag in the tempo, the awkward pauses, the hesitation at strumming his guitar. 

You finally glance up when the music gets just a little too loud. 

Eren’s eyes are already on you. 

His fingers slip on the strings, making each chord buzz incorrectly, voice cracking every couple of words. Connie gets thrown off, and the whole song gets messed up before getting halfway through it. 

Jean groans while walking toward Eren. “Dude. What the fuck is wrong with you today?”

Eren swallows. “Nothing! I know the song.”

“Then fucking play it,” Jean snaps. 

Eren doesn’t answer, but his eyes flick to you again. 

The song restarts once more. focusing too hard on the way his fingers move over the strings, the way his voice sits in his chest. 

You adjust your legs slightly.

His eyes snap open, immediately landing on you, and his hand pauses long enough for the rhythm to slip. Reiner tries to compensate by hesitating and Connie tries to match it. 

Eren comes in late on the lyric again. 

Armin cuts the song off as Jean stomps over to Eren. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Reiner clears his throat before propping up his bass. “Let’s take a quick break.”

No one argues. Eren lowers his guitar slowly and finally looks away from you. 

“My bad,” Eren mumbles and your chest burns. 

Connie taps a drumstick against the rim, looking between Eren and Jean like he’s betting on a WWE championship. “You’re playing like you’re waiting for permission, man.”

“Did you hit your head or something?” Jean mocks.

“Shut the fuck up,” Eren crosses his arms, “I’m fine.”

Connie shrugs. “Then can we get the ‘fine’ version that stays on beat?”

Your fingers lightly tug on Mina’s bracelet, thumb rubbing over the frayed strings. You’re too wrapped in your own thoughts to clearly understand the hushed murmurs between them, but your head is clear enough to catch some of the conversation.

Jean lets out a humorless laugh. “Is it because of her? Seriously?” 

“What?” Eren shakes his head immediately. “No.” 

Jean folds his arms. “You’re such a fucking liar.”

Eren’s jaw tightens. “Drop it.”

“You miss cues, forget lyrics, fuck up the chords, and now suddenly you can’t play a song you wrote?” Jean continues pressing. “And every single time, you’re looking at her.”

“Jean’s right,” Reiner interrupts, “you’ve never messed up this bad during practice.”

“We’ve already been practicing for months,” Connie shrugs. “And we start touring in a few weeks, man.”

“So get your shit together,” Jean says, “or drop her.”

Eren’s eye twitches. “Dude—”

“No,” Armin sighs. “He’s right. We’ve already been getting bad PR because of you and she’s only making it worse. You can’t even focus during practice anymore.”

Jean lets out a short laugh. “This is why the label wanted someone else.”

Eren freezes, angry eyes locked on Jean. 

“They literally handed you options,” Connie shrugs. 

“A list.” Reiner nods. “Like actual PR-trained girls.”

“Safe. Media ready,” Jean adds. “Girls who know how to act in public and in front of a camera.”

“But Mikasa’s fine, right?” Eren tilts his head. 

“She’s a fucking supermodel,” Jean says. “Of course she’s PR-trained.”

Eren’s chuckles. “Oh. Right. Like those naked women you used to bring home? Those were real media geniuses.”

Reiner coughs under his breath and looks away.

Eren keeps his eyes calm. “Your place has seen more naked women than a strip club, but now you wanna act better than everyone else?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jean warns. 

“Why? Because you didn’t give a fuck about our image until you got with Mikasa.”

Jean’s jaw twitches. “Not true—”

“Are you even actually in love with her? Or are you with her because she makes you look cleaned-up for the first time in your entire fucking life?”

Jean’s face turns red and jaw locks, shoulders becoming stiff as he takes a step toward Eren. “Suck my dick,” he yells while his hands ball into fists, knuckles turning white.

Jean lunges forward, arm swinging directly at Eren’s face. 

Reiner moves first. 

He catches Jean around his chest, arms hooking under his armpits to quickly pull him back. Reiner plants his feet, dragging him away from Eren. 

“Jean!” Reiner barks as Jean thrashes in his arms. “Hey— Chill the fuck out!”

“Let me the fuck go!” Jean snarls, digging his elbows into Reiner’s chest. 

“Eren…” Armin mumbles while shaking his head. 

“What?” Eren furrows his brows. “I didn’t do shit.”

“All of this? For her?” Reiner tilts his head. 

“I didn’t want what they picked,” Eren admits while glancing back over at you. “I wanted to be in control.”

“Clearly,” Connie rolls his eyes. 

“The paparazzi loves her. She makes me look stable. That’s good media coverage for our band,” Eren says. 

Jean lowers his voice, “that’s not going to make everyone forget about how you’re ‘abusive’ or ‘unstable’.”

“Dude,” Eren interjects, “I only beat that guy up because he was trying to take home a drunk girl!”

“That doesn’t make people forget about the viral posts on how you’re ‘abusive’ to everyone.” 

“But it changes it from ‘violent rockstar who can’t be trusted’ to ‘troubled guy with a messy girlfriend’.”

Reiner relaxes his arms, allowing Jean to pull away and take a few steps back. “And?”

“She generates more headlines than the scandal,” Eren looks between the band. “It keeps our fans busy trying to figure out who she is and why I’m with her, instead of why they hate me.” 

“But why her? You could’ve gotten some girl from a small indie band.” Armin suggests.

Eren looks over at you for a brief moment. “I mean, she’s not a stranger. We’ve seen her around. She’s kind of everywhere in the LA scene.” 

“Exactly, she’s already infamous. Everybody in LA’s seen her at parties.” Connie points his drumstick at Eren, “so she’s not a complete nobody.”

Eren says, “but she's nobody to the mainstream public. She’s known enough to stir gossip in LA, and unknown enough to change the narrative.”

Everybody exchanges glances and quietly accepts defeat. This is what Eren wants, and nothing is going to change his mind. No one’s going to argue with the lead singer.

“How’s that good for us?” Armin asks.

“Being with her makes me unmanageable. It makes the scandal seem part of the image. They'll think I’m having a rebellious phase.”

Jean presses his lips together. “She’s high all the fucking time.”

“So? She fits the aesthetic of the band. She’s a walking album cover. It’s not like you guys are always sober either.” Eren says.

“You literally took her to Rodeo Drive and spent thousands on luxury clothes.”

“Yeah. A few accessories and dresses for high-end events, dude,” Eren nods toward you. “Most of what I bought her is fishnets, leather jackets, boots, heels, skirts. She’s gonna dress like that most of the time so she looks like a mess. She’s like… trashy-glam, or whatever.”  

“You’re still fucking stupid—”

“What the fuck is going on in here?” Erwin interrupts while throwing the entrance door open. 

The smell of cigars clings to his clothes as he steps inside, the door slamming shut behind him. His glare cuts directly to Eren before shifting to the rest of the group, even you sitting on the floor. 

“Guys,” he starts, brows pulled tightly together. “I can hear you arguing from outside. We tour in three weeks. Get your shit together.”

A few mumbled “yeah, okay”s and half-assed “sorry”s fill the room. 

You tilt your head up, eyes meeting Erwin’s from across the room. 

“Oh, and Eren?” He asks, eyes still focused on you. “For the love of God, get your junkie girlfriend handled before she ruins the tour.”

Your body goes still before your brain even catches up. It’s like the word junkie punches straight through your ribs and knocks the air out of you. Your fingers grip your skirt and it feels like you’ve shrunk to nothing. 

Because he’s not wrong. But no one’s had the audacity to say it to your face like this. 

Reiner doesn’t speak, just exhales sharply through his nose, too uncomfortable to say anything. Connie looks away fast because he hates the tension, but doesn’t care enough to correct it. 

Armin bites the inside of his cheek, knowing that Erwin crossed a line, but unable to actually change anything. Even Jean, who hates you the most, doesn’t have the confidence to agree with him. 

“I’m handling it,” Eren mutters, not even looking up. “Worry about the tour, not her.”

No one even bothers to stick up for you because you’re not important enough for anyone to care about. Mina would’ve said something, though. She would’ve defended you, no matter how high she was or how sad she felt. 

“There’s a press interview next week,” Erwin says, “make sure you’re all prepared for it.”

Someone says something, but it all becomes muffled noise. Like you’re underwater. Your fingers pick at the frayed thread on your bracelet just to have something to hold onto, something that doesn’t slip through you.

You don’t look at Eren. You don’t look at anyone. You just focus on breathing, tasting the burn of humiliation on your tongue.

For a second, the rehearsal room feels exactly like every party you’ve ever been lost at: too bright, too loud, too many people pretending not to see you falling apart.

And all you can smell is cigar smoke and the faint scent of Mina’s perfume.

Erwin says something about ending rehearsal early, about how the band needs to get their shit together, and you hear the soft shuffle of footsteps as they start packing up their equipment. 

Your fingers tug at the bracelet again, picking at the fabric like each thread will slowly sew Mina back to life. It feels chained to your wrist, like it’s shackling you down to your own loneliness 

“Stop,” Eren whispers, kneeling down in front of you and grabbing your wrist. 

“You don’t have to defend me,” you say, trying to tug your arm away from him. “I know what I am.”

Your eyes flicker up, catching his glare back down at you. His lips are pressed tightly together as he breathes heavily through his nose. You can feel the anger radiating off his skin and burning into yours.

“Don’t say that,” he demands, pulling you up to your feet. 

Your knees wobble as you stand, legs numb from sitting on the cold concrete for hours. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

“Eren–”

“I picked you. Remember that,” he mumbles, pulling you closer into his chest. “Let’s go home.”

And that’s the softest anyone’s ever been to you since Mina was alive. 

tag list: @melancholic-cow @faerie-soirxx @xoxomystique @judgingyouisfun

it's drawn by @xhealer_ on tiktok AND OMFG that's how I imagine eren in your fic highkey

⟡ Chapter 4 of PR Only

⟡ wc: 3,447

The metal gates part automatically when Eren drives up to the underground garage of his complex. It’s eerily quiet for it being the middle of the day, except for the faint bass coming from his speakers.

There aren't any paparazzi like he said there would be. 

You look at each of the cars as he drives past them. All of them cost more than you’d ever make in your life. You don’t belong in this neighborhood and you know that. 

He pulls into the private section of the garage, bypassing rows of SUVs and blacked-out sedans until he stops in front of a singled-out elevator tucked behind a velvet rope. A valet in a black jacket is already waiting there as the Corvette’s engine comes to a stop.

Eren kills the ignition, steps out like he’s done this a thousand times, and flicks the keys toward the guy without a word. The valet catches them easily, then circles around the car to open your door.  

The gesture makes your stomach twist because you’re not used to people treating you like this. 

Eren waits for you, looking back while pressing a black card against the elevator panel.

You step into the elevator beside him with your purse hanging off your shoulder, the doors sliding shut with a low hum. The air feels too cold in here, like it’s filtering out whatever’s left of your high. Eren doesn’t say anything, just stands there with one hand in his pocket while leaning against the railing. The buzz of the motor fills the silence and your reflection stares back at you from the mirrored walls. Your pupils are blown, cheeks hollowed out, and you’re trying too hard to look fine.

You thought there’d be flashes from paparazzi, someone yelling his name. He said there would be. 

But there’s nothing. Just your heartbeat and his soft breathing. 

He said he wanted people to see you. But no one’s here. No cameras and no noise. Just this quiet box lifting to the sky. 

When the elevator stops, it opens straight into his penthouse. 

The first thing you see is the light flowing in from everywhere. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the room, making sunlight spill across the white pale wooden floors and white countertops. The kitchen looks like it’s never been used, just perfectly staged for a photoshoot. Crystal bottles are lined up like props, untouched wine glasses sit on shelves, and the metal  fireplace looks too clean to have ever been used. The fur rug underneath the couches looks like it’s never been stepped on. The air smells faintly like vanilla and leftover smoke from the used ashtray sitting on a low coffee table in between white couches. 

A white staircase trimmed with black wood leads to a second floor. From below, you can see the open second level, a partial floor that overlooks the living space, probably where his bedroom and other private rooms are. Large crystalized chandeliers hang above the living room and dining room.

A terrace wraps around the outside, lined with glass railings that catch the sun. Late afternoon light spills across the wooden floor and the white outdoor loungers are lined up perfectly in front of the pool. A pale table looks more like a sculpture than furniture. A sleek fire pit sits near the edge of the terrace, a large square of marble with pebbles on top. 

The terrace stretches toward a narrow infinity pool that seems to bleed right into the skyline. The water glitters under the sun, like glass poured over the edge of the building. A jacuzzi sits tucked in the corner, steam ghosting faintly from the surface despite the heat. Everything’s pristine and staged.

The view is almost breathtaking. Los Angeles sprawling endlessly below with the sun beaming down on top of the skyline. It feels like you’ve stepped into a photograph. 

It’s the kind of view that people spend their lives chasing.

But Eren doesn’t seem happy having it. 

You blink hard as your pulse begins racing, fingers already twitching from your comedown. Your heels click against the tile when walking inside, vision slightly blurring at the edges. Everything’s too shiny. 

There’s a half bottle of Jack Daniel's on the marble counter top, one of the only few signs of life. Eren doesn’t say anything when he walks inside, doesn’t even glance back at you when your heels tap against the floor. 

“Come on,” he says while tilting his head toward a couch in front of a large TV. “You need to sit down and drink some water.”

He leans over the coffee table, picking up a slim back remote and pressing a single button. The gray curtains automatically start sliding closed, turning the bright outside light to a soft shadow. Not too dark, but just enough to help make your headache feel a little more bearable. 

You take a moment to slide off your heels, the sound of them hitting the floor too loud in the expensive quiet. The pale wood feels cool under your feet, the chill kicking in right after Eren swipes his thumb across his phone screen. You watch the temperature drop a few degrees as the air-conditioning turns on. You feel disoriented. 

He doesn’t look at you when he gestures toward a hallway. “Bathroom’s through there if you need it. First door past the stairs.”

Just-in-case. Like it’s a reflex because he’s used to people coming in fucked up and needing somewhere to pull themselves together. 

He doesn’t say anything when you disappear down the hallway, but you can hear a glass being filled with water from the kitchen. You pass sleek walls and glass panels until you reach a door with a matte black handle and push it open. The guest bathroom doesn’t even look real either. A marble sink, gold fixtures,and tall, frosted windows that make everything glow soft and white. It smells faintly of eucalyptus and cedar.

You set your purse on the edge of the sink and unzip it. Your fingers fumble past lighters, lip gloss, a crushed pack of gum, crumpled up receipts, and condoms before finding your makeup pouch.

There’s complete silence when you finally see yourself in the mirror. Your face looks dull, worn out. Your eyes are puffy at the corners, smeared liner ghosting your lower lashes from when you tried to take off your makeup last night. Your lips are dry and cracked, and your skin looks sickening under the natural light. The high is starting to melt off you. No adrenaline, no glitter, just a bare face and a headache creeping up the sides of your skull. 

You’re starting to come down. And all you have in your stomach is toast and sugar from brunch this morning.

The water runs cold as you splash it against your cheeks, wiping away the remnants of the fucked-up morning you’ve had. You aren’t even sure what time it is. You pat your skin dry with a soft towel before leaning in close to the mirror, unscrewing your concealer and brushing it on under your eyes. You pat it in with your fingers before putting on mascara and too much lip gloss. It’s just enough makeup to help you look functioning. 

When you step out, Eren’s already on the couch, one leg stretched out, his head tilted back like he’s thinking. The TV is on at a low volume. A glass of water is sitting on the table in front of an empty part of the couch, next to a bright blue Gatorade and a small bowl of dry cereal. Something plain and safe.

“You didn’t eat enough at brunch,” he says without looking at you, “so I need you to eat more, okay?”

You walk toward the couch and sit down slowly, bringing your legs up on the white cushions. They’re too soft. Everything is too soft.

“I’m not hungry,” you mumble, shakily reaching for the water.

“I don’t care,” he says, tone flat. “You need to eat. If you pass out and go to the ER, it’ll make me look bad.”

You give him a half-lidded stare, lips parted like you’re about to protest, but then he places a small trashcan on the floor in front of you.

“Don’t puke on the rug.”

You want to be annoyed, but your stomach’s already cramping. You take a quick sip of the water before picking at the cereal with your fingertips, chewing slowly, the crunch echoing too loud in your head. He watches you for a moment, then hands you the Gatorade with the cap unscrewed.

“Drink it,” he says. Not a suggestion and not a question.

Your hands move before you’re even able to nod. You take a sip, then another, before taking small gulps in a desperate attempt to rehydrate. Your hands are trembling and it’s a miracle you’re not spilling all over yourself. 

“You’re shaking,” Eren mutters, gaze still on the TV even though it’s muted. “Happens to me too sometimes.”

You pause. Not because of what he said, but because he said it so casually. Like he’s been in your position before. He knows what it feels like when the high fades and the ghosts crawl back in.

Comedowns hurt the worst because they make you remember Mina the most. 

Your body doesn’t feel good anymore. Not buzzing, not glowing, just off. The air feels thick in your lungs and your skin’s suddenly too sensitive. Every sound is too sharp, every silence too loud. Your mouth is dry no matter how much you drink, your hands are cold, and your chest is starting to ache in a way you can’t explain.

You press your fingers into your temples and breathe, but it doesn’t help. You shift on the couch, trying to get comfortable, but your body won’t settle either. You can’t decide if you’re too hot or too cold, and your stomach’s starting to turn. You run your hands over your arms, feeling stressed in your own skin. 

“Do you have anything?” You ask quietly. 

His eyes drag over you, watching the tremble in your hands as you press them into your head. You look strung out, already starting to crash, and he can see it in every inch of you. How badly you want to crawl out of your own skin. How desperate you are for something to smooth the edges again.

You clear your throat. “Please. Just—just something small. A Xan, even. I don’t need to roll again, I just… I can’t deal with this.”

He keeps his eyes on you, watching your fingers twitch into your hand. His face doesn’t change and you’re not sure if he’s looking at you with disappointment or regret. Like now you're his problem to deal with without cameras recording you. 

“I gave you something this morning,” he says, voice low. “That was to get you through brunch. But you need to let it leave your system now.”

You shake your head, blinking fast. “It’s not about the high. I just—I just need to feel anything but this. I can’t—” Your voice cracks. “I don’t wanna think about her right now.”

Oh god, you sound fucking pathetic.

“She used to say that I was gonna do something big,” you say with a shaky voice. “Said I was smart. But I’m a fucking burnout.”

Eren watches you for a second. “Who?”

You take another sip of the Gatorade, but your grip is still unsteady. “Forget it,” you say while looking at the bottle. “Doesn’t matter.”

Because it hurts too much to talk about. 

But he won’t forget it. He’s staring at you for too long. Like he understands what you’re thinking.

He exhales slowly. “Yeah. I know what that feels like.” His voice is flat, trying to hide his emotions. He shouldn’t be opening up to his PR stunt like this, especially when there aren’t any cameras around. 

You’re not really anything special to him anyway.

“It’s unfair,” you say under your breath.

He doesn’t reply while pulling out his phone and aimlessly scrolling. The silence is almost comforting, almost too personal. 

Until you ruin it.

“Please? Anything—”

“You don’t get to decide what you take anymore.”

Your heart stops for a moment from the sternness in his voice. It makes you feel small, reminds you of every bad decision you’ve ever made that led you here. 

Like your parents blaming you for Mina’s death. 

“Sorry,” you mumble. 

Your eyelids feel heavy when you look back over at him. His teeth are clenched together, fingers curling into fists, too familiar with the restless panic simmering just beneath your nerves.

You glance over at the jacuzzi, watching the steam rise before disappearing in the heat. It’s too hot to get in, but the water would relax the shake in your bones. And changing the subject is easier than dealing with the consequences.

“Do you have a bikini I can borrow?” You ask.

“No.” Eren doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Why would I have that?”

You figure that if he had one, it would probably belong to some model who left it behind during one of his parties.

You sit there for a few moments, contemplating on getting inside of the hot tub in just your bra and panties, but these are the only clothes you have right now. You left all of your bags and whatever small amount of belongings that you own at Sasha’s. Your head leans back against the cushion, eyes fluttering closed and lips parting slightly. 

“You should sleep,” Eren suggests.

You fall asleep a few moments after that.

----

You wake up in silk. Not cheap sheets, but real silk that’s heavy and soft against your skin.

For a second, your mind stutters. This isn’t Sasha’s house. This isn’t anyone’s couch. You’re not on a bathroom floor with your face against the tile covered in vomit and your knees bruised from praying to a toilet god.

You’re in a bed. The kind that belongs in a showroom or a music video or a life that was never meant to be yours. The walls are white, minimalistic, and too quiet. 

It only takes you a moment to remember where you are. In Eren’s penthouse. Probably in some guest room he must’ve carried you to after passing out on the couch. 

The city lights twinkle below when you look out the large window. It’s dark outside now, and you have no idea how long you’ve been asleep. Your bra strap is twisted and your mouth feels dry. The air smells faintly of cologne and cigarettes.

You blink slowly when looking over at the nightstand. Your blue Gatorade, a cold glass of water, and a bag.

A white gift bag with black text in the middle that says PRADA.

You slowly sit up against the headboard, grab the glass of water on the nightstand, and down it in a bunch of large gulps, only stopping when you have to gasp for air. Anything to soothe the dryness clawing at your throat.

Then your eyes flick to the bag. You pull it into your lap, hands shaking slightly, and take out the tissue paper like you’re afraid of what you’ll find inside.

The first thing you pull out is a torn piece of paper with your name written at the top and a note below. 

Went to rehearsal. Jacuzzi’s hot. I guessed your size. Don’t drown - E

Your stomach does something weird, but at least the nausea isn’t as bad. 

Then you reach back in the bag and start pulling things out one by one.

A black bikini. Silky and expensive. The fabric feels buttery in your hands and there aren’t any tags on it. 

Actual designer. Nothing like the bootleg ones that Sasha sells on Depop.

You hold it up for a second, watching the straps dangle. It’s a classic triangle cut, low-rise bottoms, but something about it makes your chest tight. Maybe it’s the fact that he bought it. Maybe it’s the way it already feels like it belongs to you.

You slide off your skirt, one hand bracing yourself on the bed. The fishnets peel down your legs, sticking against sweaty skin, dragging down your calves along with your panties. You toss them both into a corner of the room, then slowly tug at the shirt.

You stand in front of the full length mirror holding up the bikini. The top ties easily and cups your chest just right. The bottoms hug your hips without digging in too much. He guessed correctly just by looking at you. 

The door creaks slightly when you pull it open and you realize you’re still on the bottom floor. You step into the hallway barefoot, the marble floor cold against your feet. The bikini feels too thin now, too exposed under the weight of the air.

The penthouse is quiet and the curtains in the living room are wide open now.

The floor-to-ceiling windows reveal downtown glittering like scattered diamonds. You catch your own reflection for a second. Bare legs, damp hair from your nap, designer bikini clinging to your skin. You look like a fraud.

You hesitantly walk to the sliding door and your fingers wrap around the handle. You slide it open slowly and a sharp gust of air rushes in, making you shiver instantly.

You walk across the balcony, steam rising in thick curls from the jacuzzi, warm and glowing like it’s been waiting for you all day. Your breath fogs in the air as you reach the edge and you climb in. The glass door stays open behind you because you can’t be bothered to shut it. 

The heat hits all at once and it stings at first. Then it holds you, sinking deep into your skin and yanking out the last remnants of your disgusting comedown. 

You sink to your shoulders, letting your arms rest against your thighs and legs float underneath you, like they’ve given up too. It’s just you, the moon, and the city below you. And the ghost of Mina, stitched into your ribs. You feel her everywhere. In the silence between heartbeats. In the hollow of your throat. Sometimes, when it’s too quiet, you swear you can hear her breathing behind you.

So you never let it get that quiet.

Steam brushes against your cheeks, making your hair stick to your forehead. Your skin is clammy and your fingers don’t feel like they belong to you. Your eyes sting from looking at the moon too long. You don’t know what time it is or how long you’ve been sitting here. You don’t know where he is. You don’t even know if this is real.

You hear soft footsteps and it makes your stomach tighten before your brain catches up.

Eren’s here. Standing at the edge of the balcony, right in front of you.

You stare at the silver snakebites in his bottom lip, catching the glow from the jacuzzi lights. He doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at you like this is the first time he’s really seeing you.

He’s sweaty from rehearsal, hair matted to his forehead and shirt sticking to his skin. You almost feel exposed in your skimpy bikini, even though you’ve probably worn less to parties in Downtown LA.

You wait for him to look at you the way men usually do. With eyes full of lust and fingers twitching to grab onto you. Like skin is currency and you’re always for sale.

But Eren doesn’t give you that. His gaze skips right past your body like you’re not even worth the thought.

“I’ll put you in pink next time. Photographs better,” he mumbles, voice raspy from screaming at practice.

You don’t break eye contact. “I don’t have any other clothes.”

Because you mainly steal and borrow clothes from others, mostly abandoning them at Sasha’s. 

“I know,” he says. “I said I’ll put you in it. I’ll take you shopping.”

You don’t have anywhere else to go anyway. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Maybe not after that, either.

Everyone knows you in the LA party scene. They love you. You dance on tables and take too many drugs until you’re floating. You hookup with random guys and parade half naked. You throw up in a bathtub and then take shots right after. You’re too loud, too visible, and not mysterious at all. You never want the party to end. 

But his label, his fans, and the press hate you because you’re perfect for baiting media attention. You’re not famous, too messy, too high all the time. 

You glance down at the water, voice dry. “They hate me.”

“Good,” he says before taking a deep breath. “I write songs about girls like you anyway.”

tags: @timotheeishot676 @faerie-soirxx @melancholic-cow

♡chapter list♡

⟡ Chapter 3 of PR Only

⟡ wc: 2695

The limo slows to a stop up in front of Sasha’s house. You don’t bother looking at Eren while ashing out the cigarette, before opening the door and walking onto the sidewalk. You’re already sweating again from the sun beating down on your skin, and you don’t even think about giving him his sunglasses back. 

You slam the door shut without a word to him, and you don’t even text Sasha that you’re already here. Your muscles feel tight when you walk, fingers twitching around your phone as you step onto her porch, hiding under the shade with sweat on your forehead. 

The sidewalk feels too quiet without the hum of the limo behind you. Mina would’ve said something stupid right now. Probably something like, “You looked like a washed-up Lana Del Rey” or “you would get yourself into this mess.” 

You stare down at your phone, thumb hovering over her name in your contacts, even though no one else has had that number for years. You just need to say something to her, even if it’s not out loud. Even if it’s just a voicemail she’ll never hear. It’s to her, and that’s what matters. 

You slip down onto Sasha’s porch steps, the wood already hot on the backs of your thighs. Your fingers move like muscle memory while opening your contacts and tapping Mina’s name. It rings three times. Then that same automated voicemail picks up, the one that never changes.

There’s a short pause followed by a beep, but it still takes you a few moments before your voice catches up.  

“Hey, Mina.” You mumble, phone on speaker because no one’s around to listen. “You’re gonna hate me for this, but please don’t be mad.”

You giggle to yourself, as if Mina’s already preparing to hear the worst. Her disappointed face flashes in your mind, even though it’s a memory fading with each passing year. 

“I went to a party last night. One of those stupid ones that Sasha always drags me to. Except… I didn’t mean to talk to him.” You pause, take a deep breath. “Eren, I mean. His name’s Eren. He’s like the lead singer of this band and got cancelled. He just kinda showed up and told me he was gonna keep me.”

Pressing your trembling lips together, you try to even out your breathing. Crying isn’t something that you want to deal with right now. 

“I mean, it’s not like I have anywhere else to go,” you sigh. 

“But anyway, he wants me to be his PR stunt. He took me to brunch today, but everyone hates me. His managers, the rest of his band. And I’m too high to act normal.” You shake your head while running your fingers through your hair. “Everyone thinks I’m his girlfriend? Or a groupie? I’m supposed to look pretty next to him and like… make everyone think he can fall in love with me?”

The sun’s too fucking hot and it’s melting into your skin. The air is hot even in the shade. Your pupils are blown, your mouth is dry, and your jaw won’t stop twitching. Dizziness sinks into your head, shallow breaths coming from your parted lips. 

“I don’t know. He should’ve picked a model or another celebrity.” Your voice lowers when you laugh, “I know you’d be disappointed. But he’s so hot it would make up for it. He’s your type.”

Your thumb rubs along the edge of your phone, staring at her contact name and the picture of you two at fifteen. A selfie you took of each other at the first party you snuck out to. It’s kinda blurry, her eyeliner is smudged, and you’re both trying too hard to act older than you were.

“I miss you.”

You hang up before you can say anything else, before your voice breaks and you end up crying on Sasha’s porch. 

The door creaks open behind you, but you don’t turn around. “I knew I heard your voice,” Sasha says, looking down at you with a smile. 

“Can I have some water?” you ask, voice dry.

It takes you a moment to stand up. The door opens wider and Sasha steps aside without another word. You don’t look at her when you glance and head straight for the couch like usual. 

Now you’re curled up in the corner of the cushion, sweaty legs tucked in with your knees against your chest. Eren’s sunglasses are pushing up on your head. The cold glass of water in your hand leaves condensation on your palm, and the ice clinks every time you shift. You take a few large gulps without breathing, the ice hitting your teeth as the chill drags down into you. The room smells like coconut and weed.

Sasha sounds tired while asking, “what happened?”

You look away from Sasha and at the light peering into the living room window. Your breathing is still heavy from the little high you have left.

“Open up TikTok and scroll for a few minutes,” you press your lips together. “You’ll see.”

Sasha tilts her head and decides that listening to your request is easier than questioning it. 

TikTok opens and it doesn’t take long before clips of you and Eren show up. It’s you stumbling out of the breakfast place with Eren’s hand on your lower back. His sunglasses are sitting crooked on your nose and you can barely hold yourself up. The sound playing in the background is one of his songs. 

Sasha opens the comments and scrolls through them. None of them are nice and she refuses to say them outloud. But she keeps scrolling anyway because someone recorded him approaching you at the party, high out of your fucking mind and sucking on a lollipop. 

Another clip is a different angle of Eren coming up to you at the party, but this time it’s when he leaned down to lick the lollipop you offered. He looks way too hot, but you look fucking insane. The comments include people making fun of you for being high, and calling him unserious for “dating” a nobody.

You glance down at your lap, rolling the cold glass in your fingers. Sasha locks her phone and sets it on the coffee table. 

“So…” you mumble, eyes flicking back up to her, “why didn’t you ever introduce me to the band if you and Connie have been friends forever?”

Sasha lets out a short laugh. “Because every time I tried, you were so fucking high and I didn’t trust you to not say anything insane.”

“Like what?” You ask, raising a brow.

“Like the first time we met and became friends, after we did ketamine in the bathroom, you spent the whole night lying in my arms and talking about the universe.” She laughs to herself, “you kept asking if we were stars together before coming on Earth. And that it was fate for us to meet.” 

“But it was Connie’s party,” you deadpan.

She laughs, “yeah, but I wasn’t going to introduce you like that.”

You try to hide your grin behind your glass. “And you didn’t want to tell me later?” “Later, you barely remembered me. We both crashed at the house and when you woke up, you ran over to me and said you felt some sort of cosmic connection with me. And that I must be your twin flame.”

“I know, I know. You’ve told me before,” you groan, leaning your head back into the cushion. “Some fake hippie shit.”

“And you never seemed to care about who owned the houses or played at shows. You kinda were in your own world most of the time,” she adds.

“Okay, but there was this one DJ who was so hot–”

“Yeah, and you swore he was your soulmate.” “Well, he was so…” you pause while looking away, “hot.”

She rolls her eyes and glances at your shaky hands. “Are you still coming down?”

You nod frantically and take a sip of your water. “Haven’t started yet, but I’ll—”

A sharp knock rattles the door before you can say anything else. It’s heavy and impatient, causing both of you to flinch. 

Sasha sighs, pushing herself off the couch, then mutters  “Who the hell?” She quietly walks toward the door. The knock comes slower this time, deliberate enough to make your breathing falter. 

When she pulls open the door, light spills into the room, framing a silhouette in the doorway. With broad shoulders and distressed hair. You can’t see his face, but you don’t need to. You know exactly who it is.

“She’s still here, right?” Eren’s voice is low. He pauses for a moment before saying, “I need her.”

Your chest tightens while setting your cup on the coffee table. Your feet are already dragging yourself to the door before your brain can catch up. Sasha glances back at you, but doesn’t say anything. 

He lifts his hand, dangling a small black bag on his fingers with a few keychains clinking together. 

“I found your purse,” he says simply, but the words make your pulse jump. 

You never even mentioned that you lost your purse last night. He must’ve noticed and went looking for it at the hotel, even though you were too tired to care. You knew it was gone. You knew your makeup, your ID, and everything else was left somewhere between the green room and the hotel. You just didn’t care enough to go looking.

But he did.

Warmth spreads beneath your ribs, unable to take your eyes off his face as he smiles. With unsteady hands, you reach for your purse before you’re even in front of him, taking it quickly from his grip and pretending you’re calm against the quickening beat of your heart.

Because he remembered something that you forgot about. Something that he shouldn’t have cared about at all.

“Thanks,” you mumble, a small smile forming on your lips as you slide the strap onto your shoulder.

He leans against the doorframe, letting the heat from outside drift into the cool house. He’s still in the same outfit from earlier, except now his hair’s tied up into a messy bun. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his shirt clings to his skin in places, the fabric just starting to stick.

“So…” he starts, focusing his eyes on you. “I want you to come back to my place.”

Sasha doesn’t get the chance to interject before Eren continues. “People need to see you coming into my home. The press will eat that shit up. It would make everyone think we’re actually dating.”

Sasha interjects, “But we haven’t even had lunch yet—”

“I’ll feed her again. I need her.”

The way he says it sounds too personal.

You nod briefly, half smiling at Sasha and mumbling a quiet “thanks” that you can barely gather enough energy for. Sasha just continues to stare at you, tilting her head, unable to form a coherent sentence. 

Because you look fucking ridiculous right now.

His hand closes around yours, catching the faint twitch of your fingers beneath his grip from the molly left in your veins. Sasha mumbles something, but you can barely hear it once he pulls you outside, the heat burning your skin as he walks you toward his car. 

He’s walking a few steps in front of you, hand sweaty against yours as you trail behind him. The door closes gently behind you, but your body is too dehydrated and weak to do anything about leaving. 

“I’ll drive,” he says, less intimidating than before. “Makes it look better if you’re seen in the car with me.”

The sunlight bouncing off a glossy hood blinds you for a second. You squint, then slide Eren’s sunglasses back down from where they’ve been pushed up on your head, settling them over your eyes. It takes a moment before you realize what you’re looking at. A bright red Corvette parked against the curb. 

Your lips part before you can stop yourself. “Of course you’d drive that,” you murmur, rolling your eyes. You cross your arms over your chest, heels clicking against the sidewalk. 

He doesn’t answer right away, just smirks as you approach the car. In one motion, he reaches for the passenger door and pulls it open. The leather interior is dark, the faint scent of weed and cologne slipping out into the afternoon air.

“Get in,” he says, not looking at you while holding it open. 

You hesitate before sliding into the seat, and he shuts it almost immediately after you settle in. The car is still slightly cool from when he left it a few minutes ago. 

It’s comfortable, but you feel out of place. It’s too nice for someone like you. Someone who doesn’t have much to her name, except the reputation you didn’t mean to build. The kind of car that people stare at as it passes by. But for a second, you hate how good this feels. 

You keep your purse on your thighs, fingers tapping softly against the fabric. By the time you look up, he’s already getting in the driver’s side of the car.

“Where do you live?” You ask under your breath as he turns on the car, the air immediately blowing against your skin. 

His phone automatically connects to Bluetooth and some punk song faintly plays from the speakers. He glances over, watching your hands jitter in your lap from the lack of food in your stomach. 

He taps the pedal and the car gets obnoxiously loud. Loud enough to rattle your chest, enough for Sasha’s neighbors to be distraught. The seat vibrates underneath you, rolling through your thighs in a way you don’t want to think about. 

He licks his lips, gaze fixed ahead. “West Hollywood.”

“You make that much money?” You blurt out before thinking. 

He shrugs as he merges onto the freeway. “We’re signed to a major label. They kind of control our image. They think it’s what the fans expect. Like, a rockstar living in a penthouse.”

“A penthouse?” You ask, a little too loud. 

He bites back a laugh. “Yeah. Just really for PR parties and clean interviews. They signed the lease, told me I had to live there, and I’ve been there since. Didn’t really have a choice.”

The car falls silent as you take in his words, looking at him out of the corner of your eye. He doesn’t follow up right away, like maybe he accidentally said too much information. You almost feel bad for him.

You stare out the window, watching the other cars pass by. “Does the rest of the band live with you?”

He shakes his head, knuckles turning white as he tightens his grip on the wheel. “No.”

Before you can say anything, he continues with a low voice. “Jean lives in a high rise in Century City. It’s seen more naked girls than a strip club.”

You hum while nibbling on your bottom lip. You don’t have anything nice to say, like isn’t Jean with Mikasa? But it’s not really your business. His voice is steady and it feels oddly intimate. Like he’s telling you band secrets that he’s never told anyone else. 

“Connie lives in Studio City. Some luxury apartment that he poorly decorated,” he says with a low chuckle, shaking his head like he wants to be disappointed. “Reiner has a house in Beachwood Canyon. Y’know, in Hollywood Hills, but less flashy, more modest than the rest of us.”

The car hums beneath you as he switches lanes, sunlight reflecting on passing traffic. His other hand taps against the gear shift, debating on whether he wants to keep going. 

He continues anyway, “Armin lives in Pasadena. He likes a quiet residential area with trees and shit. Still close enough for practice, but far enough to avoid paparazzi.“

There’s nothing but the road noise for a moment as he drums his fingers against the wheel. His eyes stay on the freeway, but he’s somewhere else entirely. 

He breathes out, almost too quietly to hear, “Mine’s the only one that doesn’t feel like a home.”

tags: @timotheeishot676 @faerie-soirxx

sorry I just had to think about the PR fanfic when I saw this 😭