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In the years that have passed since you first joined the Scout Regiment, you’ve imagined a thousand different ways you might possibly die while bearing the weight of that damned winged insignia on your chest.
A thousand ways you’d go down fighting tooth and nail, bloody and battered but with the knowledge that, at the very least, you’d tried to help make a difference.
But after all this time, you still hadn’t thought you’d make your last stand here of all places: cornered in the narrow space between two looming buildings by three of your former comrades—now Jaegerists—struggling to stand on your own two feet and virtually defenseless.
They advance on you slowly, snickering as your smashed ODM gear refuses to cooperate, not any sort of state to function after how hard you were tackled against the unforgiving brick building mid-air just moments ago. Your gear absorbed a decent amount of the blow, enough for all of the important bits to be irreparably damaged, but not before your head took a hit as well. Warm blood drips down your face, and you blink hard against the wave of dizziness that threatens to overcome your senses.
The futile step you attempt to take backward has you gritting your teeth, ankle barking in pain, protesting that you’re asking any more of it after the impact your legs took when you landed on the dusty gravel. You consider calling out for the others, but you know they’ll never hear you over the chaos of the battle that’s unfolding, the roar of the Titans reverberating deep in the marrow of your bones.
Maybe you’ve finally run out of your share of borrowed time.
The Jaegerists continue to close in on you, snickering at the way you try to steel yourself even in the face of oncoming death, and your mind goes quiet for a moment as you let it settle on one last thought—you hope that if nothing else, Jean lives to see this through to the very end.
He deserves the quiet life he’s always wanted.
“Oh, it’s you.”
A shudder runs down your spine as a voice full of disdain sends your attention careening back to the present.
Floch.
The Jaegerists hastily sidestep as the red-haired man swiftly pushes his way between them, blood that you’re certain doesn’t belong to him smearing across his brow as he runs a hand through his hair and offers you a grin that’s downright feral. With a dismissive wave of his hand, his comrades take their leave back to the roof and into the fray of battle.
“I was upset when I realized that you left me, you know,” he drawls, reaching out to brush his thumb over your jaw.
Your stomach roils, and Floch clicks his tongue when you turn away from his touch, firmly grasping your chin. You can feel the warm, sticky blood his fingers leave in their wake as he continues, “I had a feeling Jean might betray me. But you? How could you?”
The rough feeling of brick digs into your shoulders as he crowds you against the wall of the building, his breath hot against your face.
Floch was always a little too interested in you, even before things really started to go to hell. At least that’s what Jean always grumbled, anyway. So when you finally, briefly, deigned to give him the time of day, if only to help your fellow comrades pull one over on the Jaegerists before making a run for it, you should have known the volatile man would be anything but forgiving when he realized you’d been batting your eyes and swaying your hips to distract him.
“Get your hands off of me, Floch,” you growl, the anger flaring up inside of you at odds with the rapid, terrified beating of your heart.
Floch blatantly ignores you, choosing instead to run a finger over your bottom lip, and the coppery tang of blood seeps into your mouth. You stifle the urge to gag, knowing how badly he wants you to flinch.
“It’s a bit sad…how you’ve always followed Jean like a loyal little lap dog. Waiting and waiting for him to notice you, too fucking stupid to realize he’s obviously in love with Mikasa.”
His words hit you like a slap to the face.
Your knees threaten to give out beneath you under the weight of a truth you know you can’t look away from. Not now that someone’s finally said it out loud.
You really hadn’t thought it would end like this—with a whimper.
“We could have had something, you and I,” he rasps, leaning in so close that his lips nearly brush over yours. “If only you weren’t so busy drooling over Kirstein’s dick.”
“I would have never picked you, Floch. Not now, not ever,” you whisper, eyes boring into his with one last shred of defiance as the world beneath your feet begins to ripple, your body feeling the effects of the blood loss from your head wound.
Something dark flashes in Floch’s eyes. “Kirstein probably won’t even realize you’re gone when I’m done with you. What a shame.”
You suck in a breath as he reaches a hand down to grasp a blade, willing your body to rally just enough strength to surge forward and tackle him. At the very least, you could go down with a fight.
…but when the quiet, familiar whine of a wire and the deliberate crunch of boots along gravel is followed by the one voice that you know the cadence of by heart, you realize that you won’t have to.
“Get your fucking hands off of her.”
A blade gleams at Floch’s neck as Jean Kirstein steps up behind him, your best friend’s eyes burning with rage. You can’t help the sob that rips from your throat when his expression softens ever so slightly when he steals a glance over at you, though his jaw ticks when he notices the smear of blood the other man left behind on your face.
For all Jean’s hesitation about this leg of the mission, his uncertainty about his ability to take the lives of his brainwashed comrades, you know that he’ll kill Floch right here and right now. You can see it in his posture, the utter stillness of his body. The way this entire moment feels utterly frozen in time as Floch realizes it, too.
And even if part of you wants it, wants to live out whatever’s left of what might be your final days knowing that Floch finally got what was coming to him, you know it’s not worth the risk. Not when shouts have begun to ring out from your friends, urging everyone to get to the ship. Not when you know Jean will hold the other man back with his bare hands so you can escape without him, if that’s what it comes down to.
So it’s the subtle shake of your head that determines Jean’s next move, one that doesn’t involve his blade and Floch’s throat. Instead, with nothing but the element of surprise on your side, Floch is blindsided by the foot you drive between his legs with all your might, white-hot pain blooming from your ankle at the impact. The moment that he drops down onto one knee, groaning, is all that Jean needs to pull you to him.
“Jean,” you choke out, his name caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob as you collapse into him and fist your hands in his shirt, clinging to him like a lifeline.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, protectively wrapping one arm around you as he engages his ODM gear and carries you both toward the docks. And despite all of the chaos unraveling all around you, you swear that you can feel Jean’s heart pounding in his chest just as hard as your own.
The next few hours after you set off to sea are a blur, your body still shaking with adrenaline as various sets of hands examine your injuries. Everything feels a little fuzzy around the edges, and the most you can really register is the warm press of Jean against you all the while and the tickle of his hair along your cheek each time he growls at someone to be gentle when you groan in pain as they clean and dress your wounds.
It’s dark out when you finally come to, the fog in your mind parting as you wake up to find your limbs tangled in a scratchy wool blanket. You sit up, the thin mattress creaking beneath you, and rub at your eyes as they adjust to the dim lighting in the room. A small lantern sits perched on a table nearby, illuminating a cup that you can only hope contains water. Exhaling a quiet sigh of relief when you tentatively place it to your lips and confirm your suspicions, you drink heavily, only pausing at the sound of footsteps scuffing outside of the doorway.
“There’s another open room next to Conny’s,” you hear Armin say.
“She’s staying with me,” Jean’s voice cuts in, brokering no room for argument.
You put the cup down and settle back onto the bed, watching as the sliver of light from the outline of the door grows when Jean carefully steps into the room, pushing it shut again behind him.
When he realizes you’re sitting up, he swiftly crosses the room, coming to sit beside you on the mattress.
“You’re up,” he exhales, sounding relieved.
You offer him a small smile, hyper aware of the way his knee brushes against yours, heartbeat thundering when he reaches out to tilt your chin toward him. Vaguely, you wonder if you’re dreaming.
“Your head finally stopped bleeding,” he comments, eyeing the bandage on your head.
Right.
Mentally kicking yourself, you meet his gaze, willing your voice to stay steady as you say, “Thanks for saving me, Jean.”
One of his hands finds its way to your leg, fingers softly curling over your knee. “You know I always will,” he murmurs, echoing the promise he’d made to you years ago when you both joined the Scout Regiment.
In another life, maybe that version of you would be selfish enough to grasp Jean by his collar and kiss him right here and now for those words, pretending you misunderstood their meaning. Words that could mean so much more in another context, were it not for the stark line of demarcation between your feelings for him and the reality of your friendship.
Maybe you’d climb into his lap and try to make him forget all about her.
Even just for one night.
“I feel like you shouldn’t be thinking so hard after splitting your head open,” Jean comments with a chuckle when he observes your furrowed brows, gently pressing his fingertips to your temple as his attention shakes you from your thoughts.
“Sorry, it’s just been a long day,” you lie, feigning a stretch for good measure.
Jean drops his hand back down to his side as you shift, looking sheepish. “Long week, long year. You’re telling me. I think we both need a vacation.”
You snort, finally willing yourself to ask, “How’s Mikasa?”
Jean tilts his head to the side at the question, eyes narrowing a bit. “She’s fine. Armin’s a little worse for wear, but he’ll heal up soon.”
You nod, turning your gaze to the corner of the room. “You don’t need to stay in here with me tonight if you want to go and keep her company. I’ll be okay.”
Your best friend looks nothing short of perplexed at the clear insinuation in your words. “...why would I do that?”
“Because you…” you trail off, not sure why it’s so hard to verbalize Jean’s crush to his face.
Jean’s fingers brush along your cheek, urging you to look at him. “I what?”
You huff in annoyance, not sure why he’s making you say it outloud. “You and Mikasa…”
“There’s no ‘me and Mikasa’,” he says plainly.
Heart thundering in your chest, you glare at him before looking up at the ceiling in embarrassment and exasperation. “And there’s not ever going to be if you don’t get it together and tell her how you feel before we all die here.”
Jean clicks his tongue against his teeth, and your entire body goes still at the sudden feeling of his hot breath caressing the shell of your ear, “But she’s not the person I’ve been too much of a coward to tell how I feel.”
What?
“What?” you breathe out, whipping around to face him, the air swiftly leaving your lungs when you realize just how close he is, the tip of your nose brushing against his own.
Jean’s thumb traces your lower lip. “It’s always been you.”
At a loss for words, all you can manage to get out is, “Why now?”
“I used to hope you’d find someone that’d convince you to leave the Scouts and live a safe life behind the walls, something I couldn’t give you.”
Your heart aches at that, knowing that’s the life Jean always wanted, too. The one he left behind knowing how selfish it would be to waste the talent he could offer to the Scouts..
And perhaps it makes sense now—the way he’d subtly tried to find ways to hint that maybe you shouldn’t join the Regiment after all, all those years ago. The conflicted look of pain in his eyes the first time you’d proudly worn the Wings of Freedom.
“I didn’t think I could ever be enough to deserve you,” he continues. “Not even now.”
Hearing the uncertainty in Jean’s voice throws you off-kilter; it’s a far cry from the confident man you know him to be. You can’t help but offer him an incredulous look in return, baffled by the irony of it all—he’s the only person you care to spend the rest of your life with, after all.
Even if this is all you have left—these last few days, hours, moments.
A choked out sound leaves Jean’s mouth; apparently you said that out loud. “So you’re telling me…”
He cups the back of your head, eyes searching your face.
“...I should have done this…”
His other hand finds yours, fingers lacing together.
“...a long time ago.”
A shudder crawls down your spine at the feeling of Jean’s lips brushing atop your own. It’s a tentative touch, one that you press back into between one breath and the next. And as you sigh against his mouth, your own fingers reaching up to tangle in his hair, Jean stops holding back.
Legs hanging over the edge of the bed, Jean swiftly pulls you into his lap, his arms wrapped tightly around you as his lips chase yours with fervor. You straddle him, basking in the warmth of his body heat pressing into your own, savoring the rough press of the calluses on his fingers—built up from years of using the ODM gear—as he explores the expanse of bare skin on your back where your shirt has bunched up.
You can hardly be bothered to break for air as Jean’s lips slot against yours, toes curling against the mattress when he licks his way inside of your mouth. He groans as the kiss grows messier, your body arching into his at the feeling of his tongue tangling with your own.
Once upon a time, you’d exclaimed that nothing could compare to the feeling of finally mastering the ODM gear, the exhilarating rush of clearing rooftops and treelines with such seamless precision. The swelling elation in your chest to finally understand what it feels like to fly.
It’s a feeling that you’ve chased for years, the feeling that’s carried you through each and every battle to this day.
Kissing Jean feels like that—like flying.
But there’s no anchor here. No wires. No blades at your hips nor enemies at your back.
With Jean’s lips on yours, you float untethered, the weight on your shoulders and heaviness of your heart long forgotten passengers left far below as you soar.
And you let go, freefalling. Knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’ll catch you.
He’ll always catch you.
Jean’s lips part from yours to blaze a hot trail along the curve of your jaw, pressing kisses along your neck. Dragging his teeth along the sensitive skin where your earlobe meets the hinge of your jaw, his voice is rough as he murmurs, “I love you.”
There’s a hitch in his breath when you say it back without hesitation—it’s a truth you’ve always known yourself to feel, even if you could never tell him as much. He pulls you impossibly closer, fingers digging into your hips, mouth seeking yours out once more.
And as you feel his growing hardness beneath you, you can’t help but pointedly rock into the cradle of his lap, a breathy moan leaving you at the pressure of his cock rubbing against you. The sensation and Jean’s own answering moan draw up memories of all the nights you spent imagining this, face buried against your pillow to muffle the sounds as you fingered yourself to thoughts of your best friend right there in your bed in the barracks.
If your lives still held any semblance of normalcy, maybe you’d prolong this endeavor, taking your time to savor the taste of Jean’s mouth on your own first before anything else, exploring him in bits and pieces.
But with what may very well be the end of the world looming far too close for comfort, there’s no time for patience.
“Can I…do you want to…?” Jean trails off, breathing heavily as his fingers toy with the hem of your shirt, the rest of the question dancing in his eyes as he’s clearly having the same thoughts as you are.
“Jean Kirstein, if I die without fucking you—”
He doesn’t give you the chance to finish your sentence, cutting you off with a kiss as his hands find their way to your breasts. He’s barely begun to squeeze them before you break apart from him for a moment, slipping off your top and tossing it halfway across the room before grabbing for his shirt as well.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Jean breathes out once you pull his shirt over his head, pausing to take in the sight of your supple breasts before him, running a thumb across one of your peaked nipples.
His mouth quirks upward at the way you shiver in response to his touch, eyes blazing with hunger when your lips part, silently begging for more. Jean leans in, taking one of your nipples into his mouth, and you thread your fingers into his hair, urging him to continue as he shamelessly begins to suckle at the sensitive bud.
You’re helpless to deny your body’s need to grind down onto Jean’s bulge, your folds pressing into your slick, damp underwear with each thrust of your hips. His lips slide away from your breasts so he can sink his teeth into your shoulder, muffling the feral groan that rumbles in his chest in response to the way you’ve desperately begun to dry hump his cock.
Fingers trail along the waistband of your pants, flicking them open with ease to gain access to the soft, white cotton panties beneath. Jean nips his way up your neck, pausing to suck at your pulse point as he asks, “Are you wet for me?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer as he slips a hand into your underwear, a strangled “oh” the only sound he’s able to offer for a moment once he realizes you’re fucking soaked. He swipes three dexterous fingers along your sensitive slit, pulling them out of your pants to marvel at the sticky mess dripping off of his digits before licking each one clean.
The sight of that alone nearly sends you over the edge, your tight hole fluttering in anticipation. You rock your hips once more, and his eyes glint with a hint of amusement as his hand makes its way back into your underwear.
Jean wastes no time in sinking a finger into your waiting hole, slowly sliding it in and out of you as he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to the underside of your jaw. Meanwhile, you grasp his throbbing cock through his pants, fingers teasing at the wet spot of precum that’s soaked through the material, and he bucks upward into your touch.
“Fuck, baby,” he pants, stretching you open with another finger while his free hand gropes your breasts. You move your hips quicker than the diligent thrusts of his fingers, asking for more, and his chuckle drips through you like warm honey as he obliges your request with a third digit and murmurs, “How’s this?”
The sound of him fucking you with his fingers is downright obscene, the digits squelching wetly with each movement. The pleasure mounting within you has your thighs trembling with anticipation. But as you continue to fondle the outline of his cock, all you can think about is how goddamn big it feels.
“Jean,” you whine, incapable of stringing together words to appropriately express the sentiment that you’d really, really like him to fuck you stupid with his dick right now.
He cups your face, the tender gesture at odds with the fingers curling and stroking your spongy inner walls. Jean leans in to capture your mouth in a messy, heated kiss, leaving a string of saliva trailing from your lips to his when he pulls back slightly to murmur, “If you want more, you have to come on my fingers first.”
You’ve spent more time than you’ll ever admit fantasizing the dirty, filthy things Jean might say to you while taking you apart, thoughts that have clung to your mind and sometimes forced you to avoid your best friend out of embarrassment for days at a time.
But nothing can compare to this—the way his rough voice scrapes alive each and every nerve ending in the deepest recesses of your body. The undeniably dominant tone each word is laced with, and the instinctual reaction it viscerally awakens inside of you.
Jean’s thumb presses into your swollen clit at the same time he takes your bottom lip between his teeth, biting down, and the swelling wave of pleasure in your abdomen finally crests. Your entire body tenses as you moan, riding out your climax on his fingers until the overstimulation has your legs quivering for momentary reprieve.
“Good girl,” he praises, slowly pulling his sticky fingers out of your pants.
You don’t hesitate to reach for his waiting cock, eager to feel its thick warmth cradled in your fingers, but he gently nudges your hand away, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You huff in annoyance, and he shakes his head, “You’ve got me so wound up, I won’t last like this.”
“You wanna fuck me, Jean?” you coyly ask.
Idly teasing at one of your nipples, Jean’s answering grin is nothing short of wolfish. “You’re so tight, we’ll have to see if you can take me.”
You raise an eyebrow at the hint of challenge in his tone, though if what you’ve felt through his pants is anything to go by, you can’t deny it’s likely warranted.
The bedsheets rustle and the mattress squeaks as you both make quick work of the remainder of your clothes, underwear and pants left forgotten on the floor while Jean kisses and nips his way up the planes and curves of your naked body, his hands exploring each and every dip and crevice with reverence. When his lips finally meet yours once more, his hair tickling your face as he leans over top of you, anticipation curls in your gut at the feeling of what now presses against your naked body.
Your eyes trail down Jean’s chest, fingernails gently scraping over his nipples, and he sucks in a breath as you slide closer to your destination. His thick cock is a sight to behold, hanging heavily between his legs, and there’s not a trace of shame in the way your mouth waters at the thought of him stretching your slick cunt open with it.
As if reading your thoughts, Jean pushes your thighs apart, slapping his fat length against the puffy, sensitive folds of your pussy. Your back arches up off of the mattress of its own accord, and he hums, one hand firmly grasping your hip as the other wipes the flushed head of his shaft up and down your sticky slit.
His name spills from your kiss-swollen lips, your neck muscles straining from how hard you’re pressing your head back down into the pillow underneath you. And when your drenched cunt greedily accepts the tip of his cock as he notches it at your entrance, pumping a spit-soaked palm along the length of it, it’s all you can do not to spear yourself on him entirely.
“So eager,” Jean muses, watching the telltale signs of your thinly veiled restraint as he makes no effort to move any further.
“Jean, please,” you beg, fully aware that this reaction is exactly what he wanted.
He leans down, mouth latching onto one of your breasts, and you gasp as he slides into you just a little bit further while he traces wet, messy circles around your hard nipple. You grasp a fistful of his hair, finding another reason to be thankful for the way he’s let it grow out as of late as you tug his face up to yours.
“Yes?” he asks, a sparkle of mirth dancing in his lustful gaze as he smiles down at you.
“Fuck me,” you pant out, tightening your grip on his hair.
You hardly have time to appreciate the moan that drags out of him before he kisses you hard, plunging the full length of his cock into your cunt, directly to the hilt. The stretch is like nothing you’ve ever felt before, your walls spasming in protest as all of the air punches out of your lungs. But despite the impossibly tight fit, your pussy greedily takes every inch of Jean’s cock, tears of pleasure pricking at the corners of your eyes.
“Holy shit,” Jean moans as your pussy clamps down on him, so hot and wet he nearly blows his load right then and there. “You’re so fucking tight.”
Fresh arousal dribbles wetly from your entrance and onto the base of his shaft, each and every nerve ending in your body buzzing like a livewire. You can feel his cock throbbing inside of you, swallowed up within the warmth of your cunt, his balls hanging heavily against your ass. Jean’s careful as he begins to ease out of you, well aware of the way your walls are so desperately choking his thick length.
It’s why he’s surprised when you grasp at the soft strands of his hair once more and breathe out impatiently, “I’m not going to break, you know.”
Jean leans in and murmurs against your lips, “What are you trying to say? You like it rough?”
You nod, running your teeth along his bottom lip, “Yeah, Jean. I do.”
Cock now resting at your fluttering entrance once more, Jean groans as he snaps his hips into yours, burying himself deep in your soaking wet pussy.
“So perfect,” he murmurs as you writhe and keen in pleasure beneath him, your tits bouncing with each thrust as he begins to ravage your hole. “Taking me so, so good.”
“Feels so good,” you nearly sob, head spinning with the pleasure threatening to spill over inside of you.
Jean’s kisses are all tongues and teeth, filthy and messy as his thrusts begin to grow sloppy. “Come all over my cock, baby. Please,” he groans. “Please, please.”
He’s begging for it, begging to feel your cunt clamp down and gush all over his dick.
He’s so fucking close, balls seizing up, his entire body straining from the effort to bring you to your climax first.
“Come. For. Me.”
And it’s the desperation in his voice that sends you hurtling over the edge, a bright, searing lightning strike of pleasure like you’ve never known before bursting open inside of you as you succumb to an orgasm that leaves you positively boneless.
“Inside,” you gasp just as Jean goes to pull out.
His answering groan is the most sinful sound you’ve ever heard as he plunges back into you, his forehead falling against yours while you both revel in the feeling of your walls spasming and contracting against his cock while he fills your cunt with spurt after spurt of hot, sticky cum.
Jean flops down onto the bed beside you after you’ve milked every last drop of his seed from his softening cock, breathing hard, both of you too spent to fumble for something to clean up the mess of cum that lingers between you. Instead, he tugs you against the warmth of his chest, pressing a gentle assault of kisses everywhere on your face but your lips.
You pout as he pointedly avoids your mouth, tangling your fingers in his hair and pulling his mouth toward yours. Jean smiles, the expression filled with unabashed adoration and fondness so stark that you swear your heart stutters in your chest.
“I’m gonna marry you when this is all over,” he whispers into the scant space between your mouths, each syllable brushing across your lips.
“You promise?”
You can feel Jean smile into his answering kiss.