#marco bott smut

[yuyuswrld]

O Captain, My Captain

Series Intro

characters: various aot boys x reader

genre: SMAU with writing, romance, smut, angst

for my marco fans, there’s a little sneak peak at him at the end :)

notes: this series will be 18+ even though this introduction does not have any smut in it. please do not interact with me if you are under 18. all characters in this series are over the age 18.

You learned that Eren Yeager was a stone wall incredibly quickly. It was a shock to you, considering how popular he was despite being unable to converse with someone he didn’t know well. You’d have steered away from him forever if it had been up to you. However, knowing your luck, you had to see him every day after all your classes were over.

It was a slip of judgment to allow yourself to be recruited as the next manager of the volleyball team. Sure, you had watched a couple of games here and there for school spirit, not to mention copious amounts of alcohol at the after-parties. But when one of your professors approached you on your way out of class, describing a great way to amp up your resume and get all-expenses-paid vacations, becoming a sports team manager was the last thing you expected.

“It’s kind of funny, actually,” Connie starts to explain after you walk into the gym, noting the tasks you'll be in charge of before you commit to the offer. “Our old manager, Hanna, got pregnant with one of my homies. Now she’s off giving birth and whatnot, so we’ve been down a manager.”

“So what does a manager typically do?” You question, shifting the conversation slightly to get to the point. The more you look at the different stereotypical characters running across the courts and the loud smacks that echoed throughout the gym, the more your desire to take the opportunity dwindles. Sure, cute boys and another achievement on your resume are great or whatever, but you really try to avoid getting committed to sports – especially after crashing and burning last time. You shudder as a chill runs down your spine at the thought before Connie starts talking again.

“Oh, um. I won't lie, I honestly have no idea what she did, either.” You stare at Connie in silence, cocking an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Uh, is there someone who does?” You ask. It's getting difficult to ignore your doubts about your decision to come here.

“Yeah, I think so. Let me go grab ‘im.” Connie jogs further down the court, interrupting someone as they finish their current spike. But as your eyes focus in on who was walking closer, you knew you we’re going to have the displeasure of meeting Eren Yeager.

Connie runs over to drag his brown-haired teammate over, who takes his sweet time walking over after sparing you only a glance. He is good looking, sure – but you aren't fooled by appearances, and you've heard far too much about him to even remotely consider him attractive from listening to Petra gossiping about him. She had a big mouth and somehow knew everything about everyone, the good and the bad, but it came in handy when it came to staying in the loop at school. Eren had a nasty habit of cursing out any girl who made an advance on him, citing his career and how a ‘bitch’ would only get in the way of it.

You think back to the memory of Petra sipping her drink, watching Eren walk out of school and head towards his Hellcat in the parking lot. You two had been sitting at the school’s cafe as you enjoyed your “study” date, which had inevitably just turned into a gossip session.

“You see that guy? That’s Eren Yeager. He’s on our volleyball team and he’s a fucking psycho.” She'd rolled her eyes as she recounted the gossip she had gotten from her friend. “Apparently Mina – y’know the one from our bio class? They hooked up at a party and afterwards he accused her of trying to sabotage his volleyball career. He even called her a psycho. That’s not even the only time he’s done it apparently. I know he’s cute, but stay away unless you want to end up on a true crime podcast.”

You brace yourself for the upcoming conversation as he nears.

“You’re going to be the new manager?” Eren says in a monotone voice, as if being forced by his mother to make small talk with a distant aunt. The displeasure of being interrupted is written all over his face.

“No – well –” You start before Eren cuts you off without hesitation.

“Usually Hanna prepares the towels, fills the bottles with water, and mops the gym after practice. Coach Levi's pretty anal about the gym being clean, so pay attention to that. You’ll want to learn about formations and strategies, too; Hanna fucking sucked when it came to game sense. You’ll work with the sports director Erwin to set up practice matches and travel plans. There’s probably more, but that’s your job, not mine.” He jogs back over to do spiking drills without another word. Your jaw slackens, scoffing at the attitude. What a little shit. Connie shrugs at you in an I’m pretty sure that’s right way. You smile at him, politely dismissing yourself before trudging your way back to your professor’s office.

“Absolutely not,” you say, dramatically sighing to emphasize the sheer disappointment you feel from the experience. “I only talked to Connie and Eren, which was already too much. You’d have better luck with a dog trainer or circus clown to manage them.” Your shoulders drop, but you prepare to defend yourself as to why.

“Please,” Professor Hange begs, their eyes beading with desperation. “I was the one who introduced the previous manager to the guy that got her pregnant. On accident, of course, but they’re totally on my tail about getting a new manager to fill the spot!” They spin around haphazardly before collapsing on their standing desk in an unconvincing sadness. “I’ll even see if they’ll pay you as if you were working a normal student job.”

You internally cringe, but are now forced to consider the prospects. Chewing on your lip, you respond. You know if you look back on this moment at any point, you’d want to go back in time and slap yourself.

“If you can make it a paid position, I’ll do it.”

Unsurprisingly, Professor Hange got their way in the end.

next: part 1, reiner x reader

[minx-scribbles]

all apologies (part two)

warning: nsfw 18+, suggestive language, drug use, alcohol use

pairing: rock band au! college au! armin arlet x fem!reader

synopsis: Y/N meets the band and enjoys a little pregame with Sasha and Connie. But that blondie keeps looking at you...

tags: tequila...

notes: pregaming losers, we love it. i think the next part will be my absolute favorite. tehe

word count: 2.3k

part one | part two | part three coming soon

The drive to The Rocks seemed like it went by in less than a minute when in reality, the drive was fifteen, plus having to stop at the gas station to get Jean his energy drink. Sasha ushered you in, and you picked out a snack to chew on so you wouldn’t get bored at the bar since it was so early and no one would be there for another hour. 

The high was still messing with your brain and you didn’t want the panic to rise while you were in public so you didn’t make any eye contact with the cashier, even though your brain was telling you that they one hundred percent know you are higher than a kite right now. Sasha was pretty good at being a trip-sitter, which is a good thing since you are a lightweight with anything. 

Once all four of you arrive in the back parking lot of the bar, you all launch yourselves out of the crowded vehicle. You were excited about the fact that you were going to be seeing a live show, and from what Jean and Connie were saying, they all got special back-stage passes. But you knew that they were being sarcastic. 

Connie wraps his arm around you and Sasha’s shoulders while Jean leads the way into the back door. The alleyway was surprisingly clean with only a few weeds peeking out from the foundation of the other buildings. The large black door that read, “Employees Only!” in red sent a warning to solicitors. 

Jean opens the door and holds it for the three of you and with the dim lighting. The backroom that you were led into is what you guessed was the breakroom for employees. It was lit up softly with multicolored LED lights and decorated with comfy leather seating that you could literally sink into. There were three different doors with different signs that read, “Stage”, “Dressing Rooms”, and “Exit to Club”. Actually being in the building was giving you butterflies; you were nervous to meet the rest of the group. Will they like me? Will they think I am weird? You felt yourself rubbing your hands together nervously. 

Sasha knocks you out of it, “Hey, do you need something to drink.” Her golden gaze looked worrisome, “Connie, I knew you letting her take a hit was going to make her sick.” Her eyes stare daggers into the tall man between you two. 

Connie doesn’t respond but does roll his eyes at her and leads the group over to one of the inviting couches. You all plop onto the couch with Connie’s arm still wrapped around the both of you; and to be honest, it was grounding you. 

Now that you were seated and not as overwhelmed with the new environment, you could hear some music coming from the door that read “Stage”. You notice Jean was on the phone pacing around the room, chattering to someone about how they are late or something. He sighs as he puts his phone in his pocket, “Well that was Floch and he said he won’t be here for another 40 minutes since he has to do something with his girlfriend.”

You finally had the balls - probably the weed - to ask Jean who this person was, “Who’s this Floch dude?” 

Connie speaks up this time with an annoyed look, “He’s a douche that doesn’t care about this band. He always puts his wants before the band’s needs and I’ll give it to him, he’s fucking killer as a DJ and a producer so they can’t really risk losing him at all.” 

All you can think about is how can they risk losing him if they go to a university full of talented musicians and artists. Like hell, you’d do it if you knew what the hell all those buttons meant. 

Jean continues Connie’s explanation, “Floch is amazing, and we have tried to see what other producers go to MIA but not many have the same vision as us. They like their own things and so do we, and Floch seems to genuinely enjoy our music. That’s the main reason why we haven’t thrown him to the side. Plus, we get more people to come when they see that Floch is the DJ while we play.” Makes sense.

Sasha joins in, “Yea, I mean, if he wouldn’t slack all the time I really feel like he would get somewhere with producing. But he’s always with his numerous girlfriends being a man-whore.” Numerous? Damn. 

Jean shrugs and walks over to the stage door, “Whatever, he will only be a couple minutes late so it’s better than most times.” He almost leaves all the way before pushing his head back in, “if you guys wanna come watch, you definitely can.”

That makes you perk up and you look at Connie and Sasha with excited eyes. Connie notices and stands up, taking you with him by the hand, “Sure, let’s go see.” The three of you that were on the couch follow the tall man through the door. 

Stepping into a small dark entryway - you assume the wing - that leads two ways, you almost trip from something on the ground. You look down to see long black cords connected to the large machines to your sides leading out to the stage to your right. The left led to backstage. You tried your hardest to not step on any of the big black cords laying everywhere. Jean continues to the right towards the stage. 

The dance floor inside the club was massive. Two bars sit on opposite sides of the room with the stage sitting in between them in the back of the building. The stage wasn’t disappointing either. It was huge, big enough to hold all of the scattered band equipment that was littering the floor. The band equipment looked picturesque and it was impressive to see such expensive machines owned by university students. But with how Jean bragged about his band, it seems like a reasonable investment. 

The musicians on the stage left you breathless. How come this school has such attractive students? The four of them all notice the group and put down their instruments to greet Jean, Sasha, and Connie. 

The tallest one with dark, almost black, brown hair and light brown eyes seems to brighten up when he sees Jean. He softly smiles at Jean as they give each other an intimate hug. After they pull away, you notice that the boy has style. He was wearing a mesh jacket that left the eyes wandering over his exposed tan skin. His black ripped jeans were held up with a black belt with silver accents, with black combat boots to complete the look. He had silver wire bracelets and a chain that laid nicely on his chest. His chest was also painted with multiple freckles, along with his face. Noticing his face, you saw he put on the prettiest shimmering highlight and a smokey eye. Jean’s boyfriend was so beautiful, it made you jealous of him. 

The other person who had the perfect smokey eye was a girl that was originally at the microphone at the head of the stage. Her black pixie-cut hair was styled to look like a mess but it looked too good on her. Her pale skin had no blemishes other than a cool scar that illustrates her left cheekbone and pretty dark eyes. Her petite, but jacked, figure was emphasized by the sheer thigh-highs and short lace-decorated skirt. Her tall leather-buckled boots fit perfectly with her leather jacket. Black leather garters hook onto the thigh-highs, making her thighs look even better. She seemed shy but nice, giving you a small smile. 

The man who had his arm around her shoulder fit her whole aesthetic. He had a longer leather jacket on, and like Jean’s boyfriend, that left little to the imagination from having no shirt on. His lightly tanned skin was a portrait. Tattoos that were so close together, there seemed to be barely any room for more tattoos. A silver chain dusted his broad chest along with one singular black bracelet and black nail polish to pull it all together. His baggy jeans covered his pointed leather boots. He had multiple ear piercings, including a bar on his right. He also had a cool black septum piercing, making his light green eyes pronounced. He seemed cool, but a little smug. The smirk that he was wearing kind of wanted to make you slap him, but he was too pretty for that. 

The last one looked the prettiest to you. With layered blonde hair with brown roots and a matching scruff on his jaw. His bright blue eyes looked shaded, but his pink lips spread to give you a kind, bright smile. He didn’t have any piercing other than a pair of silver diamonds. His pretty pale skin was covered by a tight-fitted black tank top that stretched on his broad shoulders. His loose fitted, worn-out jeans hug low on his narrow hips. His hands had small tattoos with multiple silver and black rings. Black combat boots peek from the hem of the jeans. This man stood out among the other darker-aesthetic people in the room. 

Sasha took the liberty of introducing you to all of her friends, “Guys this is Y/N, be nice or I’ll beat the shit out all of you.” Everyone smiles but the tall boy holding onto the pretty girl rolls his eyes. Sasha continues her introductions, “the one that is loving up on Jean is his boyfriend Marco, and that couple is Mikasa and her douchebag boyfriend Eren. This blondie is Armin.” 

Everyone crowds around you like you're a new puppy, asking you questions about what your major is and where you originally lived. You don’t mind too much, everyone was just too attractive, oops. “Well I used to live in a smaller sized city, it isn’t too far from here. I realized I wanted to do something bigger with my art so I decided to come here to study.” 

Marco asks if you have liked MIA, “So far, I’ve loved it. Seeing all these creative ass people helps me let loose and destress.”

Eren quips, “Plus you will be letting loose in a few minutes when we start playing. Trust, it’ll help, especially since we have the best singers at MIA.” His arm pulls Mikasa in closer and a light pink blush dusts her face. Marco also gives Eren a small smile. 

From what you have seen, you wouldn’t doubt it. Their set-up just looked veteran level and their outfits look so effortlessly perfect on the group. The black drum set, although it had the best shine you've ever seen, had white paint splattered on the sides and black lettering with the band name Embers and Stones on the front. The guitars and bass were similar but had different phrases and stickers littered all over them. Even their large speakers in the corners had multiple stickers on them; some of them with memes and some with band names. 

Armin speaks up, “Speaking of playing, we should probably start preparing for a crowd. The bar opens in like 20 minutes.” All the members agree and they give their goodbyes to you, Connie, and Sasha. Connie leads the three of you off stage to the bar to start off with the pregaming. 

Once at one of the bars with three bartenders who seem to be preparing for a large party, Sasha orders shots, “A round of three tequila shots, please.” The bartender gives a nod and walks away to start cutting limes. 

Your stomach churns at the thought of tequila, “Damn Sasha, tequila this early? It’s only like 8:45.” You internally shed a small tear. 

Connie and Sasha give each other a look and smirk at you. “Oh, this is just the beginning sweetheart,” Connie says to you while putting his hand on your shoulder. “Sasha and I know how to start a party, and end a party.” He pulls away to grab his phone from his pocket, getting a text. 

Sasha nods, “Yea, once it starts it doesn’t end until one of us blacks out.” That was hopefully sarcastic, but we’ll see. 

In three minutes of Sasha and you talking about the best types of liquor to take shots of and Connie stressfully texting, the bartender arrives with three blue translucent shot glasses full with salt and lime hanging onto the rim. 

Sasha gets so excited that it reminds you of a toddler seeing its favorite toy. But Sasha quickly turns over to Connie and grabs onto his phone, “Stop texting her, she’s obviously still being a bitch and treating you like shit. Let loose man.”

Connie looks at his empty hands and back at Sasha with a mock-shocked look, “Sasha it’s not like that anymore. She’s just… going through it right now.” You just sit there witnessing the confusing argument. 

“Since when have you had a night where you weren’t there to comfort her while you were OUT. Like at a PARTY. With your FRIENDS. She doesn’t let you do shit with your friends ever. She just wants you to be obsessed with her 24/7,” Sasha states back while holding out his shot. “Take the shot and I’m holding onto your phone for the night. Hitch can come later.”

Connie looks defeated as he takes the small glass, “Fine but if she goes berserk, that’s not on me.” 

Sasha shrugs and puts his phone in her tiny purse that barely holds her necessities. She grabs the remaining two shots and hands one to you, “To a stellar night!”

[daisynik7]

Rush

Chapter 1: Reputation

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x f!reader

Rating: Explicit

cw: explicit language, college au, fraternities and sororities, eventual smut, underage drinking

Summary: After an uneventful freshman year, sophomore Eren Jaeger joins Alpha Tau, the top fraternity at University of Paradis. In the aftermath of last semester’s scandal, the fraternity makes the decision to partner with the academically successful but socially unpopular sorority Sigma Nu Kappa in hopes of building back their reputation.

As a new member of Sigma Nu Kappa, you meet the mysterious Eren through your roommate and now sister, Mikasa Ackerman. His good looks and intensity pull you in at first. But like it is often portrayed in television and movies, finding love in a frat house is never that simple.

Notes: Chapter title inspired by "End Game" - Taylor Swift

ao3 | Next Chapter

Rush Series Masterlist

Rush Series Taglist

----------

Alpha Tau fraternity. Arguably the hottest, most popular frat at University of Paradis. Ask any sorority girl who their favorite type of guy is. Nine times out of ten, their answer is “an Alpha Tau”. The same answer applies if you ask any goddamn independent who the worst type of guy is. Girls want to fuck them, guys want to be them, GDIs want to hate them. And that’s why they are the kings on campus. 

For the past ten years, Alpha Tau has always had the most numbers when it comes to recruitment, also known as “rush”. Every potential new member puts them at the top of their list. But that didn’t mean they had the most members.

The thing about Alpha Tau is that they pride themselves on being exclusive. As if a fucking frat wasn’t already “exclusive” enough. They are notoriously critical when it comes to accepting new members, often spending hours during rush week to decide who is worthy of being a brother. The basis of this is usually looks, athletic ability, legacy, and sometimes even academic prowess.

That’s how current sophomore Eren Jaeger and his best friend, Armin Arlert, managed to finesse their way into the elusive club. Eren’s older half-brother, Zeke, who graduated from Paradis a few years back, was a legend in Alpha Tau, known as “The Beast”. Zeke told him all kinds of wild stories about his college shenanigans, specifically about his time in the fraternity. Crazy parties, drunken adventures, all the hot chicks he hooked up with. It sounded like a dream come true to Eren after his horribly boring freshman year. That’s what inspired him to rush this year as a sophomore, dragging Armin along with him.

Once the frat found out Eren was a “legacy”, being related to “The Beast”, he was a shoo-in. He also persuaded them to give a bid to Armin, convincing them that he is the smartest and most strategic man they’ll ever meet, right next to Erwin Smith, the current president of the fraternity.

The others in his pledge class are Connie Springer, Jean Kirstein, and Marco Bott. Jean and Marco got in based on their athletic ability; they are members of the college soccer team. Connie was recruited purely for his funny personality and good nature. And maybe also the fact that he is a massive stoner, which they took a liking to.

Tonight is the first chapter meeting that the new pledge class is allowed to attend. After a few weeks of new member development, taught by the strait-laced and straight-edge senior Levi Ackerman, Eren and his class are officially Alpha Tau brothers. Now the fun begins.

As they fall in line outside the chapter room, Armin leans in close to Eren and whispers, “Some of the members got kicked out.”

He whips he head around and asks, “Huh? Are you serious?”

“Yeah. I heard that the last president, Nile Dok, messed up big time last semester. He was turning a blind eye to all the problematic members. They were caught cheating and trying to pay their way out of trouble. Obviously, they didn’t get away with it.”

As some of their other brothers start falling in line in front of them, Armin continues in a slightly hushed voice. “Also, they called themselves the Mega Pornstars, or the MPs for short. They had their own group chat, rating the girls they’ve hooked up with and ranking them. They had a whole list. Someone in that chat let it slip to Erwin, who immediately brought it up to Nile. And Nile knew about it all along. He was in the group chat himself, but never participated in it. But he knew about it. Saw what they were saying and didn’t do anything to stop it. So now, with Erwin being president, those members were immediately suspended during the summer. And the ones who graduated, he stripped them of any association with the fraternity.”

“How do you know about this? You seem to have all the details.”

Armin looks down to his side, and in an even quieter voice, replies, “Mikasa told me.”

Mikasa.

At the mention of her name, Eren instantly feels guilt. Ever since he decided to rush, he hasn’t had time to spend with his other best friend. Well, truth be told, he hasn’t made the effort to spend time with her. Armin, on the other hand, has. Making him feel even worse.

Realizing what Armin just said, he asks, “Wait. How does Mikasa know?”

Armin gives him a small smile and states, “Mikasa joined a sorority.”

~~~

Rushing a sorority was not something you thought you’d be doing the start of your sophomore year of college. But somehow, a few weeks later, you find yourself sitting beside your roommate and now pledge sister, Mikasa Ackerman, in your first chapter meeting as an official member.

The two of you have an interesting relationship. You were roommates in your freshman year, but it almost felt like you lived alone. She was always out with her friends and she only came back to the room to sleep and bathe. While she wasn’t necessarily your best friend, the few times you interacted were always cordial. Sure, she is a little intense, but she is never rude. Just absent.

It surprised you when you received a text from her over the summer asking to be roommates again. You thought she didn’t care enough to even consider you. Honestly, you felt a little honored. Despite her intensity, you always found Mikasa Ackerman to be cool. Aside from her dashing good looks, she had a confidence about her that just screamed badass. You lacked confidence yourself, finding your looks to be unassuming and plain. It didn’t help that your freshman year turned out to be as uneventful as you were hoping it wouldn’t be. How does one even find a party to go to? The few friends you made are just as home bodied as you, so spending time inside the dorm was the norm.

Sophomore year has proved to be much different than last. Mikasa, who used to be a ghost roommate, is now your friend. She spends most of her time with you now. Obviously, you don’t question it. Instead, you embrace it. You like Mikasa. It’s fun hanging out with her. It’s like you’re making up for lost time.

When she suggested rushing, you couldn’t help but think it was a joke. But no, she was dead serious. And as if Mikasa wasn’t already convincing enough, she asked you, “Don’t you want to be more social this year? Go to college parties? Meet boys? Have fun?”

And that’s how you end up as an official sister of Sigma Nu Kappa.

The thing about Signa Nu Kappa, or SNK for short, is that they aren’t the most popular sorority on campus. Notoriously, women rank it last on their interest list during rush week. On paper, it’s an organization that has great academic reputation, making it well liked among the professors and staff. They are the ideal representation of what the Student Affairs Committee want a sorority to look like. However, to the fellow students, they are boring. They don’t party. Their social reputation amongst the other organizations in Greek Life is essentially nonexistent. It’s also seen as the place where all the women who couldn’t get into their first pick, maybe even their second or third, end up joining. The rejects.

Is it true? Maybe for some women. But after getting to know the sororities during the first week of recruitment, both you and Mikasa end up ranking SNK first. You feel comfortable with the women there. While the other sororities are nice, it’s Signa Nu Kappa that feels like home, as cheesy as that sounds.

Now, after a few weeks of getting familiar with the sorority and Greek Life in general, you and Mikasa sit beside each other, attending your very first chapter meeting as Sigma Nu Kappa sisters. Current president, Hange Zoë, stands at the podium, reading announcements off a piece of paper.

“Welcome new babies to your first official Sigma Nu Kappa chapter meeting! Woohoo!”

The other sisters clap, beaming at you and the rest of your class. You give Mikasa a knowing smile, which she returns. Hange reads off a list of housekeeping items, none of which apply to you considering you don’t live in the house yet.

“Okay! The boring stuff is out of the way. I’ll let our Social Chair take the stand now!”

Petra Ral, another senior, take’s Hange’s place at the podium. “Hi sisters! I have a very exciting announcement to make. This semester, we are being paired up with a fraternity in the effort to build stronger relations with the others in Greek Life.”

This news creates a buzz around the room. You hear one of your pledge sisters, Sasha Braus, squeal two seats down, “Ooohhh boys?!”

Petra continues. “Now I know we don’t have the best reputation for being the most social sorority, and this partnership might be a little bit out of the comfort zone for some of you. But we strongly believe this is a great way to improve the status of our organization. We don’t want to be seen as a sorority that only performs well academically. If we want more women to join us, we need to be seen as fun! Which we are! They just don’t know it yet!”

Hange exclaims, “Well said, Petra! There’s no doubt that we are a fun group of women. People don’t know it yet. But they will soon enough!”

“So which frat are we pairing up with?” Nanabe, another senior, asks.

With a bright smile on her face, Petra announces, “Alpha Tau!” The buzz in the room is even louder now.

Suddenly, you feel Mikasa stiffen beside you. You turn to her and whisper, “Are you okay?” There’s a worried look on her face, but she doesn’t say anything.

Three seats down, next to Sasha, you hear a sarcastic snort from Annie Leonhart. “Great. We’re getting paired with a bunch of disgusting pigs.”

Christa Lenz, who sits to your other side, leans forward to ask innocently, “Annie, what do you mean?”

Ymir puts her arm around Christa’s chair and answers, “She means exactly what she said, sweetheart. Alpha Tau is a frat of disgusting pigs.”

Mikasa snaps her head towards Ymir and yells, “They’re not!”

You and the rest of your pledge class are taken aback by her outburst. Annie leans forward to face Mikasa with a smirk. “Don’t worry, Mikasa. I don’t include Armin when I say that. But everyone else in there can choke and die for all I care.”

Mikasa glares at her, fury in her eyes, looking like she’s ready to attack. Before anything escalates, Hange joins Petra at the front. “Okay, listen everyone. I know this is a very…controversial decision. Now, let me reiterate that what is said in this chapter room, stays in the chapter room. Got it?” She eyes you and your pledge class before proceeding.

“Alpha Tau is very close to being on probation by the Student Affairs Committee. Some of you may already be aware of this, but a small group of their members participated in some very inappropriate conduct. Since Erwin has been president, those members have been kicked out and properly dealt with. Erwin has made sure that they no longer represent Alpha Tau in any way whatsoever. Both Erwin and Levi Ackerman, their vice president, came to me and Petra wanting to form a partnership this semester in an attempt to improve their besmirched reputation. By pairing with us for a semester, they hope to prove to the committee that they can be a respectable fraternity, both with academics and towards women.”

Nanabe questions, “Why us? The other sororities perform fine academically too. Seems so out of the blue they want to partner with us.”

“Well, based on numbers, we have the highest average GPA. Also, truthfully, none of the other sororities were willing to partner up with them. Considering the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

Hange pauses, unsure whether to continue or not. “Okay. Let me say this again. What is said in this room stays in this room. The now banned brothers from Alpha Tau made a list ranking the women they had sex with.” There are a few gasps and shocked reactions at this news. It makes you sick hearing it. “This includes many women from the other sororities. So, naturally, the presidents of each of those sororities are choosing to distance themselves from Alpha Tau, at least for this semester, once all the smoke clears. Until then, we are the only sorority who has a clean slate with Alpha Tau.”

Petra adds, “Also, both me and Hange are close to Levi and Erwin, respectively, and they’ve been wanting to pair with us for quite some time. Now that they are prez and vice prez, they have more say in those matters and are finally making it happen.”

“So, we’re just supposed to be okay with pairing with a fraternity that ranks women based on their skills in bed? How is this okay?” Annie argues.

“They kicked out those members! The current brothers had nothing to do with it!” Petra cries out.

Ymir chimes in with a smug expression. “Wasn’t their last president in on it too? That Nile guy? And is it true they called themselves the Mega Pornstars?”

Hange answers with a frenzied look, “Nile didn’t participate in it! And he’s already graduated, so it doesn’t matter anymore! But yes, unfortunately the Mega Pornstars thing is true.”

More groaning surrounds the room. You look over at Annie, who crosses her arms with a furrowed brow, silently sulking. Turning your head the opposite way, you see Ymir whispering to Christa, who eyes are wide with shock, the poor thing. Suddenly, Mikasa stands up straight, the unexpected movement making you flinch.

“My vote is yes for this, President Hange! We have to help them get their reputation back. For Armin…and…and for Eren…” She stops talking, looking deep in thought at that last part.

Eren? He must be the other friend. The one she no longer hangs out with.

Hange looks over at her, confused. “Uhh, we don’t technically need to vote on this, but thank you for the vocal support, Mikasa. Look everyone, I know this is unprecedented, but I can assure you: This is going to be beneficial for both parties. They need our help to build back a good reputation; we need their help to further improve ours. It’s a win-win.”

“We’re going to be collaborating with them mostly for charity events. But we were thinking we can also have a couple of exchanges, for fun. Oh, by the way, for our new members, exchanges are social events between a sorority and fraternity. We haven’t gotten down to the nitty gritty details, but I will update you soon on a schedule of events!” Petra explains.

The president takes over again and ends the chapter meeting, thus ending the conversation on Alpha Tau all together. You and Mikasa gather with the rest of your pledge class to walk back to your dorms. Sasha is the first to bring it up once you’re well away from the house. “So, what do you ladies think? About the whole Alpha Tau thing?”

Ymir scoffs, “Well, you all certainly know how Annie and I feel. I’m trying to convince little Christa here to feel the same, but she’s not having it.”

“I just think we should give them a chance. Just like they’re giving us a chance, right?” Christa says, as sweet as ever.

After having a few minutes to digest the information, you say, “I agree with Christa. I think we should go in with an open mind. I trust Hange and Petra’s judgement. I don’t think they’d put us in a situation that would harm us. This Erwin Smith guy seems nice enough.”

“It’s not Erwin Smith I’m worried about,” Annie says.

“Annie, stop being so cryptic and just tell us what you know!” Sasha exclaims, biting into a piece of bread that she somehow conjured from her pockets.

“There are these two guys I know in there. One of them isn’t so bad. Bertolt. He’s actually okay. The other, well. He’s just a straight up dick. Reiner. Reiner Braun. Straight up asshole.”

“What makes him such an asshole?”

“He’s just a typical frat boy. Obnoxious, cocky, a player. The three of us went to the same high school. They’re a year older than me.”

“Just because he’s a fuck boy doesn’t mean they all are! Armin’s in there, and he’s a total sweetheart! Right Mikasa?” Sasha turns to Mikasa, begging for a comment.

Mikasa stares at the ground with her hands in her pocket. Quietly, she replies, “Yes. Armin is a sweetheart.”

“Isn’t your other friend in there too? Eren? What’s he like?”

You try not to let your curiosity show, but you can’t help but perk your ears up to Sasha’s question.

Mikasa stays quiet for a few seconds, before saying, “He’s nice too.” No more elaboration.

“See, Annie? All we have to do is avoid this Reiner guy and it should be fine! Don’t let one rotten potato spoil the whole bag!”

“Why does it always seem like you’re talking about potatoes, you doofus?” Annie snaps.

You all veer off into different directions, saying goodbye for the night. As you and Mikasa walk towards your dorm, you let a comfortable silence fall between you, not wanting to cross any lines with your roommate. At the door, Mikasa mutters, “Wait.” You turn to face her, listening.

“I’d like to get some things off my chest.” You mentally brace yourself for what she’s about to reveal to you.

“I know that you’re probably wondering who Eren is. He’s my best friend. Him, me, and Armin. We all grew up together, but Eren is practically a brother to me. And I know you must have been curious why all of a sudden, I’m hanging out with you more than them.” She swallows before she continues. “The truth is, ever since he rushed Alpha Tau, he’s been too busy to hang out with me. Sometimes I think he’s forgotten about me completely. Armin still makes time to see me, but even he’s too busy nowadays. So, I joined a sorority to make more friends and be more social, instead of sulking in my own loneliness. And I don’t harbor ill feelings towards Eren. Maybe I did at the start, but not anymore. I just…I just want to make sure he doesn’t forget about me.”

She stares at the ground the entire time, arms crossed over her chest. “I guess what I’m trying to say is thank you. For being my friend. And going through this with me. And since we’re going to be seeing a lot of Alpha Tau now, you should know about Eren, since you’ll probably be seeing him too.”

This is the most you’ve heard her speak. It stuns you for a few seconds. You let a moment of silence pass before you walk towards her and put an arm around her shoulder. “Mikasa. Thank you for telling me. I know it’s not easy opening up.”

She looks at you, expression still serious. “It’s not, but I feel like you should know.”

“I appreciate it. Hey, I know it feels like you may have lost a brother, but at least you gained a sister, right?”

Finally, a small smile forms on her lips. “Yeah, I guess that’s one way to look at it.”

“You should just try talking to him, tell him how you feel,” you suggest as you swipe your ID to open the door to your dorm.

“I’ve tried to text him, but he never responds. I can’t ever get a hold of him.”

“Well, maybe this collab with Alpha Tau is exactly what you need to reconcile with him.”

“I guess.”

Back in the room, the two of you change into pajamas and start getting ready for bed as you continue to chat about other topics besides Eren. Once in bed, you turn to your side and contemplate the night’s events.

There’s no denying that this partnership with the most popular fraternity on campus excites you. Disregarding the giant shit stain from the bad apples, everyone knows that Alpha Tau are the “cool” guys on campus, whatever that means. Maybe this is exactly what you need to work on your confidence. It’s a good opportunity to meet new people, maybe practice a little bit of flirting. Maybe even make some new friends.

One thing is for sure: You are determined to make this year more exciting than last.

~~~

Erwin Smith, Alpha Tau’s chapter president, stands up straight in the front of the chapter room. His first announcement of the night is regarding “big brother” assignments.

“New pledge Armin Arlert. Your big brother is Bertolt Hoover.”

Bertolt, who sits in front of them, turns around to give Armin a kind smile, which is returned.

“New pledge Eren Jaeger. Your big brother is Reiner Braun.”

Right next to Bertolt is blond-haired junior Reiner Braun, who turns to give Eren a cocky smirk before saying, “Hope you’re ready to fucking party, man.”

Eren smirks back. “Hell yeah. You gonna show me the ropes?”

The blonde only scoffs as he turns back around to face the front.

Eren nudges Armin before paying his attention back to the president. After he reads off the other big brother assignments, he says, “I’d like to give the floor to our vice president, Levi Ackerman.”

“Good evening, everyone. Welcome new members to your first chapter meeting. On a serious note, I have some news that I know most of you are aware of already.” He explains the situation about Nile Dok and the “MPs”, more or less of what Armin told Eren just a few minutes earlier. “I know it’s a bit of a hit to our numbers, but those members did not exemplify the values of Alpha Tau. President Erwin did what needed to be done.”

“Hear hear!” one of the seniors yell, followed by some cheers from the others.

Another senior that Eren met a few days ago, Mike Zacharias, says, “Fuck the MPs. And fuck Nile Dok.”

“Mike,” Erwin warns from the side. Nile was Erwin’s big brother, unfortunately.

Levi continues. “Honestly, we should be ashamed we let those fucking pricks into our organization in the first place. But what’s done is done. Now onto my other big announcement. To atone for what those fucking shit stains did, Erwin and I have decided the best way to move forward is to pair up with one of the sororities on campus.”

This news results in an overwhelming round of cheers and hollering from the brothers, to which Eren can’t help but join in on. He nudges Armin again, who smiles.  Jean, who’s seated on Armin’s other side, leans in close to whisper, “Who do you think it’s gonna be? I hope it’s the Delta Mu’s, they’ve got the hottest chicks.”

Connie chimes in, “Eta Iota girls are hot too. Walked by them while they were doing their porch yells last week.” He lets out a low whistle.

“Oh yeah! All the sororities had their first chapter last Sunday,” Armin notes.

Levi raises his voice over the commotion. “Alright brothers, settle down, settle down. After a lot of discussion, we’ve decided that the sorority we’re pairing with is Sigma Nu Kappa.”

A different outburst fills the room now. There are a few cheers, mostly from the seniors, but there is an overwhelming sound of disappointed groans.

“Sigma Nu Kappa? Are you fucking serious?” Reiner grumbles to Bertolt, who just nods with a neutral expression on his face.

Armin, on the other hand, can’t help but grin and exclaim, “Yes!”

“You know about them?” Eren asks.

“That’s Mikasa’s sorority!” he answers, excited.

Eren still can’t get over the shock that Mikasa Ackerman, the girl he grew up with over the last ten years, the woman who looks like she couldn’t hurt a fly but can actually kick your ass, is now in a sorority. It’s something he has to see to believe. And given this announcement, he’s going to see it sooner than he expects.

“Now, I know a lot of our brothers aren’t familiar with the sisters of Sigma Nu Kappa. This is a great opportunity to get to know them. Most of us seniors are familiar with the other seniors in Sigma Nu Kappa and I can say with full confidence that they are a group of fine, albeit unique, women,” Levi tells them.

Erwin stands up and walks beside Levi, adding, “Yes. It’s in all of our best interests to be respectful and welcoming to the sisters of SNK. As Alpha Tau men should be to all women. I will not tolerate disrespect or harassment of any kind. I am quite close to President Hange Zoë, so be warned. Any hint of misconduct, you are out.”

“Petra, who is their social chair, and I are working on a schedule of events. We plan to have our first exchange in two weeks, followed by a volunteer event a week after that. I’ll send an email reminder later, along with role assignments for the exchange. Any questions, you can come directly to me. My room is on the second floor.” With that, Levi adjourns the meeting. Before they file out, Levi yells, “Pledges. Meet in the kitchen in five minutes. I’d like to have a word before you leave tonight.”

Armin and Eren tail the rest of their pledge class as they make their way downstairs towards the kitchen.

“This is exciting! I’ve been curious about this sorority ever since Mikasa told me she was rushing. She said this was her top choice.”

“Why didn’t she say anything to me?”

“I’m sure she tried to, Eren. You don’t ever respond to her texts.”

“Well, how am I supposed to respond to a text that just says ‘Eren’? If she has something to say, she should just say it.”

“Oh, Eren,” Armin responds, shaking his head in disappointment.

They gather in the kitchen, waiting for Levi to meet them. He comes down two minutes later, a stern look on his face, as usual.

“Pledges. Just wanted to clarify some things. An exchange is a gathering between a sorority and fraternity. I know I said I have some role assignments, but I can assure you, you will not have any assignments during our first exchange with Sigma Nu Kappa. We want you to enjoy your first party as official Alpha Tau brothers.”

Jean responds, “Hell yeah. Good shit, Levi!” Marco follows with a cheerful, “Yay!”

When the vice president dismisses them, Armin and Eren make their way towards the front door to start walking to their dorm. Before they reach the handle, Reiner’s voice booms from the top of the stairs.

“Eren! Armin! Bertolt and I are getting McDonald's. Want to come?” 

The best friends look at each other for a second before agreeing with a resounding, “Yes!”

A few minutes later, Eren and Armin ride in the back of Bertolt’s Honda Civic while Reiner occupies the passenger seat. Classic 80s rock blasts through the car’s speakers as they ride off campus with the windows rolled down.

Reiner turns the volume lower on the car to speak. “So, what did you guys think of your first Alpha Tau chapter meeting?”

Armin replies, “It was cool! I’m excited to be paired up with Sigma Nu Kappa.”

Reiner scoffs, similar to what Eren heard earlier in the chapter room. “I don’t know about these Sigma Nu Kappas. I heard they’re pretty lame.”

“My best friend is in SNK, she’s in the new pledge class,” Armin says, a bit defensively.

“Annie’s in there too,” Bertolt adds.

Another scoff from the blond. “Annie? Now I know for a fact they’re lame if they gave her a bid.”

Eren notices Bertolt’s grip on the steering wheel tighten but doesn’t say anything in response.

“Hey, Eren. Did Zeke ever tell you how he was my big bro when I first joined? He was a senior when I was a freshman, and he already had two other littles from the previous pledge classes. But he still picked me up. Dude was a legend,” Reiner says.

“I didn’t know that. I guess it’s fate that brought us together,” Eren responds, with a deadpan expression.

Reiner laughs. “You’re a little crazy, you know that? You say some weird shit, but I like you. This is going to be fun.” He turns towards the front and blasts the music on high again, drowning out any potential for further conversation.

Eren nods his head along to the music, leaning his face towards the open window to feel the coolness of the night air against his skin. The breeze blows through his long hair as he repeats the sentiment from Reiner in his head.

This is going to be fun.

[burning-autumn-blues]

Praying for Love in a Lap Dance (38225 words) by autumnblues Chapters: 10/? Fandom: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Levi/Eren Yeager, Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein, Sasha Blouse/Connie Springer, Bertolt Hoover/Eren Yeager Characters: Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin), Eren Yeager, Mikasa Ackerman, Jean Kirstein, Marco Bott, Connie Springer, Hange Zoë, Erwin Smith, Armin Arlert, Bertolt Hoover, Annie Leonhart, Grisha Yeager, Carla Yeager Additional Tags: Strippers & Strip Clubs, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, But it doesn't happen, It's Okay, Eventual Romance, Minor Violence, levi is a cop, Fluff and Smut, Domestic Fluff, Chicago (City), Eventual Smut, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Fluff, Light Angst, levi really loves eren, it's precious really, smut tags will be added later, Bromance to Romance, Hand Jobs, the bert/eren is temporary Summary: It's Chicago in 1994, and Eren Jeager is twenty-one years old. After being kicked out of his family home for being gay, and dropping out of college, Eren was left homeless, hungry, and with minimal cash. He now lives in a third rate apartment with a barely functioning microwave, and makes his money as a stripper in an alley club, disguised as a smoking bar for gentlemen. The patrons are disgusting, but none as disgusting as the manager, Erd; an incredibly violent and short tempered bastard and like who the fuck wore a man bun anymore, anyway? Levi is a tired, twenty-nine year old cop. He hasn't seen his family for years, and doesn't really care. Nor does he care for sex, or romance, or anything at all, really. But one night, after a bad week, he allows himself to be dragged along to Eren's strip club by his 'eccentric' best friend - Hange. What he finds is Eren - and Levi soon realises that he does care. A lot.

[mirandasidefics]

Attack on Titan Masterlist

💥Action/violence

💦smut/thirst

💔angst

✨️fluff

**Please note that all of these are quite old and originally written around 10 years ago. Some may have been updated in 2017/2018, but for the most part they're old so be gentle with them.

Life with Friends and Lover's-

Modern College AU, Poly Jean Kirstein x Marco Bott x Reader

Comfort 💔

Jealousy 💦

You’re beautiful 💔💦

Pitter Patter 💔

Memories ✨️

I Want to Be 💦✨️

Pitiful Creatures 💔💥

Bertolt Hoover x Reader- Summary

"Pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known? God give me courage to show you, you are not alone."- Phantom of the Opera

After making your escape with your fellow Warriors, your small party plans on how to get back home alive. How will others receive you upon your return? Especially since your mission is not complete. But after losing half of your friends and your lover in the process, you seek comfort that is long overdue.

Come Back Soon - Erwin x Reader drabble

Kitchen Mess- Levi x Reader one-shot ✨️

Tickle Attack- Reiner Braun x Reader one-shot ✨️

[ao3feed-eremin]

He couldn't

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/sSyIfaw

by lKeiji

The heat got worse, as well as his nausea as he made it to the door, wobbling, on his two weak legs. And closed it with a little too much force, he was now sitting on the floor against the door, trying to fight the second wave of nausea that was haunting him, like a ghost haunting a house.

Words: 561, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage

Categories: M/M, Multi

Characters: Armin Arlert, Eren Yeager, Eren Yeager's Parents, Levi Ackerman, Erwin Smith, Armin Arlert's Grandfather, Armin Arlert's Grandmother, Mikasa Ackerman, Annie Leonhart, Marco Bott, Jean Kirstein, Connie Springer, Sasha Blouse, Reiner Braun, Bertolt Hoover, Hange Zoë

Relationships: Armin Arlert/Eren Yeager, Levi Ackerman/Erwin Smith, Mikasa Ackerman/Annie Leonhart, Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein, Ymir Fritz/Krista Lenz | Historia Reiss, Reiner Braun/Bertolt Hoover

Additional Tags: Teen Romance, Teen Pregnancy, Trans Male Character, Pregnancy Kink, Unplanned Pregnancy, Pregnancy, Discussion of Abortion, Step-parents, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Teen Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Out of Character, Eventual Smut, My First Smut, would this count as mpreg?, Mpreg, Implied/Referenced Character Death

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/sSyIfaw

[jeanbeaux]

please pleas eshare the thought with jean. please i’m legitimately begging you please

ahsjsks because you begged nonnie

warnings: smut/18+/minors DNI, vouyerism, cucking, oral, absolute fucking filth

a/n: this has actually haunted me for weeks…shout out @mitsuyasmistress for being the first one i screamed too, @aiiwa the loml who helped me add the missing piece to this, and @yeagerslut who is here to help remind you that all these boys are disaster bis, enjoy

Dating frat boy Eren who lives in the room next to fellow frat brother Jean, subjecting the poor boy to the sounds of your moans through those thin walls that makes Jean’s morning wood just a little bit harder when he wakes up, even though his boyfriend Marco is sleeping soundly right next to him.

Jean who feels that pit of guilt grow when you giggle at the way he gets so flustered when he catches you coming out of the bathroom, towel clutched to your wet body oh so innocently as you bounce back to your boyfriend’s room — Jean shutting the bathroom door behind him quickly so he can bury his head in his hands to try to quell the terrible thoughts he’s thinking of you.

So when Marco calls him over to a quiet room in the party, he feels his stomach drop — its over — he’s figured him out, the least thing he’s expecting is you and Eren sitting in the room too, legs spread over Eren’s thighs with your skirt flipped up so Jean can get an eyeful of your pretty pussy.

Marco did figure him out, and Eren was able to put two and two together too, the both of them coming to you with this little proposition to finally quiet down the storm in Jean’s mind.

Jean can’t believe it, alternating from looking back at the two of you and Marco in shock, causing Marco to hold his face still as he tells him “It’s okay, I’m fine with this.”

“I think it will be hot.”

Jean drops to his knees, crawling between your open legs to press a soft kiss on your clit, hands resting over with Eren’s over your thighs as he dives into your folds.

You’re squirming in your boyfriends lap, gasping as Jean eats you out like a man starved, your whines causing you to feel your boyfriend stiffen against your back and Marco to palm over the crotch of his pants.

And Jean?

Well, he’s in heaven. You taste so much better than he could have ever thought, tongue prodding into your entrance so he could lap all of you up, and he realizes he needs more than just this. So he takes a break to beg, mouth covered in your slick as his lips quiver when he begs you to give him a chance to fuck you, and you’re nodding deliriously in agreement as long as Jean will get you to finish.

Eren gets sick of his whining, fisting Jean’s honey brown mullet to shove it into your puffy folds. “She said make her cum, damn it, then we can negotiate,” he grits.

“Do what he says, baby,” Marco calls out, his own voice strained as he pumps himself at the sight in front of him. “You want to be good, don’t you? Be a good boy and listen.”

So Jean obeys, wrapping his lips around your bud and giving it a desperate suck as you shatter in Eren’s arms.

You feel like jello, looking down at Jean with half lidded eyes and a dopey smile as Eren starts to whisper in your ear. You let out an airy laugh and nod, and Eren slips from out from behind you, maneuvering you so your head hangs over the edge of the bed so you can gaze up at Marco with big doe eyes and your lips parted. A blush dusts his freckled face, a soiled hand holding his flushed cock as he watched his boyfriend eat you out like you were his last meal.

“She wants you too, Marco,” Eren says.

“Trust me when I say she sounds so much better with out having a wall muffle her out.”

[heich0e]

forget me not (p. 2)

➭ "'Who were you to me? Before my accident?'

His voice is quiet, but as imperious as if he’d screamed the words. They knock the air from your lungs all the same.

You want nothing more than to tell him everything that has been eating away at you - to be honest where for so long you’ve been forced to hold back.

To tell him that you loved him.

That you still do.

No matter what you’ve been trying to tell yourself."

☾ pairing: marco bodt x reader ☾ fandom: attack on titan ☾ genre: canon divergent, lovers to strangers to lovers, angst, smut ☾ wordcount: 16.7k ☾ part: 1 / 2 [crossposted from AO3] ** warnings: memory loss, canon-typical violence, hatefucking, dom/sub undertones, name calling, edgeplay, me being horny for marco with an eyepatch

Your boots struck loudly against the floor of the hospital hallway, the rapid taps of sole meeting stone echoing in your wake as you raced through the corridors towards the emergency wing.

Marco.

Hospital.

Critical condition.

Connie had very little additional information to offer you when he found you helping with the clean-up efforts following the attack on Trost – just those four terrifying words. He flew in on his ODM gear, stumbling over his own two feet when he landed, out of breath and stuttering in his haste.

You only needed to hear Marco’s name before you started running.

The Garrison Corps officer who was leading your clean-up squad balked at you as he saw you fleeing your post, but didn’t bother to try and stop you as you raced past him. He himself had lost his entire squad only a few days prior, and one look at your pallid, terrified face forced his parting lips closed again, allowing you to sprint in the direction the hospital without so much as a glance back.

You were grateful for his moment of sentimentality, though you didn’t stop to express it.

The weight you’d been carrying in your chest for the forty hours since Marco went missing had suddenly shifted; no longer was it pressing heavy against your heart, weighing you down like a shackle, its suffocating iron grip had risen tight around your throat – wrapped so firmly around your airway that you could feel your pulse under your tongue as you ran.

And you did run, as fast as your muscles could propel you in fact, faster than you knew you were capable of - carrying you closer to him with every frantic step.

Breathe. Breathe. Get to him. Breathe.

No matter what your mind tried to command, your lungs simply refused to cooperate; the paltry amount of air you drew on your inhalations was promptly forced back out in short, gasping pants. Your chest heaved, and a burning ache began to spread outwards from the centre. You forced yourself through the discomfort - you would breathe when you knew he was alright.

You turned a corner in the hospital and skidded to a sudden stop, head swimming like it kept moving forward even when your body had gone inert.

Jean was squatting against a wall in the emergency wing, his uniform covered in blood, his knees drawn up to his crimson-stained chest. His bleary eyes met yours as you stood frozen at the end of the corridor, the two of you staring at each other for a long moment. You stumbled forward, approaching him slowly – but your feet suddenly felt leaden, as though every step forward was an insurmountable challenge.

“He’s in surgery,” Jean said quietly, his voice hoarse, as you crouched down beside him. He stared at the knees of his trousers rather than meet your gaze up-close. You scanned his face: his eyes were red, as though he’d been crying, and his skin was pale and clammy from anxiety. He looked traumatized.

“How was he?” you asked, resting a trembling hand on Jean’s shoulder.

Jean pinched his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down hard.

“Was he awake? Did he say anything?” you pressed for more details, desperate for any information Jean could give you. You could see that he was struggling, but you needed to know.

He nodded a little, swallowing as he mustered up his nerve. “He… he came to… just for a minute, while I was carrying him here.” A sob ripped through him, in spite of his efforts to choke it back, cutting him off before he could say any more. His head hung low towards his knees to hide his face from you. Your heart wrenched in your chest, and you reached out on instinct, drawing him into your arms.

Marco would pull through.

He had to.

You hadn’t even said goodbye.

“Did he say anything, Jean?” you risked asking again, stroking the boy in your arms’ hair gently as his face pressed into the collar of your shirt.

He drew in a shuddering breath, pulling away from you. He wiped roughly at his face, attempting to erase the lingering traces of his tears as he fought to pull himself together. Your eyes finally met, and behind his tawny irises you saw him trying to make himself be brave. Trying to will himself not to waver or crumble under the weight of what he’d seen.

“Your name. He only said your name.”

You had no idea at the time just how desperately you would cling to that fact in the years ahead.

You sit up in bed, waking from a familiar bad dream.

You remember it often, no matter how hard you try to forget – and every time you do recall that day at the hospital, the same feeling of dread grips your heart. You know how things turned out; you know Marco made it out of surgery, you know he stayed unconscious in that hospital for four months until he eventually woke up, you know he came back to the survey corps, back to you. But you can never quite shake the visceral, enduring memory of the fear that struck you to your core, permeated to the very marrow of your bones, in the face of possibly losing him.

You wonder why you can’t seem to forget it; why you can’t seem to heal from the wound that day inflicted on you – leaving you with a permanent scar to remember it by.

Maybe it’s just because you think of him all the time – with every passing day you spend together in the corps, living your lives as strangers, you find more and more of your waking thoughts dedicated to him. And the two thoughts are simply inextricably bound together: Marco and the fear of losing him; Marco as he is and Marco as he was.

You’re invariably haunted by your memories of him. The good and the bad.

You think of him when you see the first wildflowers sprout in spring; yellow, purple and white cropping up amongst the lush grass after winter’s snow and frost has melted away. You remember braiding them into chains under your favourite tree, nimble fingers working to weave the stems together, and laughing as you fitted them to his head like a crown that always suited him.

You think of him each time you smell fresh ink. You can’t help but be reminded of studying late into the evenings, your feet bumping against each other’s under the table in the library on the base of the Cadet Corps. The way your fingers would brush lightly as you reached for the same book while your fellow cadets pretended not to notice, stifling their smirks.

You think of him when you hear the first birds chirping in the morning just before the sun breaks the horizon. Memories flooding back uninhibited of late nights spent in the stables, nestled in the hayloft under the blankets you’d stolen off your bunks, slipping out to return to your rooms before anyone woke and noticed you were gone.

Sometimes you wonder when everything had started reminding you of him - or whether these remembrances are just second nature when you’re always thinking of him anyway.

You’re sore the day following your evening with him, but the pain has grown familiar over time; Marco never goes easy on you on the nights he drags you into his quarters.

Not that you particularly mind.

You still haven’t told Jean about everything going on between the two of you – how could you, when you don’t even know what to make of it yourself? Besides, you know exactly what he’ll say about it: it’s reckless and stupid to put Marco’s recovery in jeopardy so selfishly, especially when he doesn’t even truly know what’s at risk.

It’s why you struggle to meet Jean’s eyes over the table at breakfast that morning, knowing that his best friend’s teeth are imprinted in a purple mark just below the collar of your crisp white uniform shirt. You feel your cheeks flush at the thought as you push your greyish porridge around your bowl, hoping he doesn’t notice.

You feel ashamed by the affair, and dirty for keeping it from him. So you bury the secret down in your chest along with the rest of them, locking them away from the world.

Fortunately, the day provides you with plenty of distractions to keep your mind from your guilt. Unfortunately, those distractions include training drills.

You’re still not great using your omni-directional mobility gear, but you’ve improved considerably in your time since the Training Corps – having at the very least developed enough competence to keep you alive. You were neither the fastest nor the most acrobatic, but you could hold your own enough to make it home, and that was enough for you. The recent changes to the design of the gear (which you’d played no small part in making) had thrown a wrench into things, causing you to stumble back a bit in your progress as you tried to adjust to the upgrades - but you were learning, improving with practice, and that was what the training drills were for.

It was another scorching day outside, and there was little reprieve on the outdoor ODM course as you stood beneath the midday sun. A series of run-down old buildings and structures to use as anchors for ODM grapples were situated on the far corner of the Survey Corps base - the intention of the course to test both your speed and your agility with the handling of the gear.

Ten soldiers would begin the course at the same time, the first to return back to the start line on each run was allowed to conclude their training session and exit the course. The remaining soldiers would continue to repeat the gruelling track until there was only one left standing - if they hadn’t already collapsed by that point.

You toe the dirt at the starting point, flanked on either side by fellow soldiers also preparing for the challenge ahead. It was a mix of ranks joining you that round, not altogether uncommon in a practice exercise like this one, and you notice a few eager looking rookies towards the end of the line, laughing and joking between themselves about who would be the first to finish the course. You smile a little ruefully, remembering the days of such lighthearted camaraderie – the baseless confidence often quickly undermined by the actual challenge of the exercise. You chuckle softly to yourself, wondering which of them would be the first to realize just what they were getting themselves into.

The starting shot fires, and suddenly the sound of ODM gear hums loud all around you as the ten soldiers (yourself included) spring into action. Your muscles move without much conscious thought, propelling you forward with a velocity you’ve long grown acquainted with.

The course is familiar; you must have run it a hundred times before doing this same exercise. You know where to aim your hooks for the most effectual attachment; you know when to arc higher on an upswing or drop closer to the ground on a turn; you know which corners have unexpected walls or beams waiting for you on the other side and how to avoid them.

You rarely finish first in these training runs, but you’re confident that you should be able to get out on the third or fourth round if you play your cards right, so you hold back as to not exhaust yourself trying to compete against the strongest in the pack on the first few passes. That’s the shrewd thing to do, after all.

You’re halfway through your second loop of the course when things take an unexpected turn.

First out is Floch, much to your annoyance, but you try not to let it get to you too much – you take at least a little bit of consolation from the fact that Arlo Fitz (the same Arlo Fitz who’d crudely propositioned you the night prior) looks to be on the brink of death thanks to that rot gut he’d been drinking the night before, and was lagging far behind where he would usually place in the rankings. You suspect (gleefully) that his hangover was only made all the worse by the sun beating down on the course from high in the midday sky.

You don’t feel a shred of sympathy for him.

You find yourself placing a little further ahead in the second loop than you had initially anticipated when you’d first sized up your competition. If you can manage to maintain the same pace, you might even be able to get out in the next pass.

Suddenly, one of the excitable rookies from the starting line-up swoops in front of you, attaching her grapple to the same place you’d been about to fire. You quickly adjust, choosing a slightly less ideal target a few feet away on the same wall, which means you take the turn ahead a touch slower than you’d hoped.

As you swing hard around the corner, compensating for your subpar anchor, you see the rookie disappearing around a wall up ahead with a wide, proud grin on her face as she propels forward. She’s good, you can’t help but note as you take the same turn, but she’s reckless. If she doesn’t slow down soon–

Your stomach drops.

There’s a beam jutting out from one of the buildings up ahead. It’s old and has long cracked under the weight of one too many grappling hooks during training runs, but remains standing unsteadily. The older soldiers know to avoid it, any reasonable person would take one look at it and know it wasn’t stable, but you watch in horror as the girl aims for it. Faster than you know what you’re doing, you find yourself firing your own hook before her. Your grapple knocks hers away from the beam and she shrieks as she’s unexpectedly free falling, quickly working to correct it by latching on to a nearby building and swinging towards it clumsily.

You don’t have time to aim again, forced to use the old beam as your moor as you swerve hard to avoid colliding with the rookie as she found herself knocked off track. The weight you put on the beam proves too much, just as you knew it would, and with a loud crack you feel the tension in your ODM cable go slack. You don’t have time to aim again properly, shooting out towards the nearest wall and hoping your hook lands high enough to keep you from crushing into the dirt ten-metres below.

The cable still attached to the beam breaks under the weight of the falling slab of wood, an unpleasant snap echoing in the air and a brutal force yanking against the harnesses around your hips. With that ODM cable rendered useless, you have no choice but to prepare for impact against the wall you’d shot out towards.

Just as you brace yourself to hit the surface of the wall, a body collides with yours.

You’re suddenly enveloped by the smell of tobacco and fresh mint, a woosh ringing in your ears as you swing deftly through the air thanks to someone else’s (undamaged) ODM gear. But you don’t have long to appreciate the familiar scent before you find yourself dropped unceremoniously onto the ground, the air knocked out of your lungs as you hit the dirt and roll.

“What the fuck was that?”

You blink in surprise from flat on your back where you’ve landed, breathing raggedly as adrenaline rushes through your veins.

A figure towers over you from your place on the ground, the bright afternoon sun behind them making you squint as you peer up towards the masculine silhouette. The sun makes it difficult to see the man’s face, but the sound of his voice makes it obvious who’s speaking to you – and it isn’t hard to tell that he’s snarling.

“The beam was going to crush her.” You rise to your knees, wincing a little. Marco had dropped you pretty hard to the ground, and you were already sore to begin with – also thanks to him.

“So you were gonna let it crush you instead? How noble of you.”

As you rise unsteadily to your feet, you can see his face better. He has his tinted eyeglass on today to protect his good eye from the sun, but he’s pushed it up to his forehead to glare at you, the strap pinning his dark hair back from his face – leaving his furious expression in full view.

“What exactly do you think we’re doing here? If you haven’t noticed, we’re training for combat. There’s no room for chivalry in a fucking war, you idiot.” His final comment stings more than you wish it did.

“I wasn’t being chivalrous, I was just-“

“Throwing off the entire training course while putting yourself and everyone else out there at risk?” Marco cuts you off before you can even properly defend yourself, venom in every biting word. “Your cable is snapped, even if you dodged that beam it could have landed on any one of the other soldiers running the course, and if I hadn’t stepped in you’d be crushed against that wall! I know your ODM skills are fucking abysmal but are you seriously that stupid?”

The burn of frustrated tears pricks your eyes, but you hold them back, though something that has been building in you for a long time finally breaks – like a dam that has slowly been fissuring under the weight of the water it holds back, it suddenly ruptures and a flood surges forth.

“I was smart enough to design the rifle you keep strapped to your back!” you snap furiously. You step forward, getting in his face as best you can in spite of your height difference – though what you lack in stature you make up for in pure indignation. “But you probably didn’t know that though, huh? Or maybe you did,” you laugh bitterly, without a hint of humour in your voice, “but perish the thought that you show a little god damn gratitude for anything! Not for the medical care that saved your life, the gear that keeps you in action, or the support of the people who care about you and who’ve worried about you every fucking day since you got back here.” You push angrily against his firm chest, not that it does much - he doesn’t so much as waver.

His eye is hollow as he glares down at you, only a few inches away from his face.

You grit your teeth and step back a little to put some space between you, still seething and only further upset by the fact that you’re affected by his close proximity.

“But I’ll do something you’re clearly incapable of: apologize for my mistake. I’m sorry I ruined the course. I’m sorry I made you waste your time coming to help me. But I refuse to apologize for helping another soldier, even if showing an ounce of human compassion is utterly beyond your capabilities.”

You feel a hand wrap around the crook of your arm, pulling you back.

“Don’t touch me!” you snap, wrenching yourself from the unwelcome grasp. You whirl around to see who’s come to pull the two of you apart, and immediately feel bad at the wounded look on Connie’s face.

Worse still when it softens into one of pity.

You swallow hard, and spin on your heel to stomp away from the scene - shouldering through the crowd of confused soldiers who had gathered to witness it all unfold from a safe distance. Your eyes are still burning as you walk away.

Jean finds you a while later, sitting in the shade of a tree on the edge of the Survey Corps base - your busted ODM gear resting a few feet away from you as you glare at it resentfully. Jean doesn’t say much as he settles down beside you under the cover of the leaves, though his hand does reach to pat your shoulder gently.

After a while he offers you a handkerchief, which you stare at for a moment in confusion as it hangs outstretched in his hand. Then, you realise why he’s done it.

When had you started crying?

You take the handkerchief and blot at your wet cheeks, before dabbing sheepishly at your running nose.

Jean finally clears his throat to speak.

“He remembered you once,” he says quietly, the same reminder he’s offered you so many times in the past three years. He says it in a way you know is meant to be reassuring but only makes the chasm in your chest grow wider. “He remembers more all the time, too. I’m sure that-“

“Don’t, Jean.” You hold up a trembling hand to silence him, watching as your fingers curl into a fist around the tearstained handkerchief between them. “I just can’t bear it.”

Jean looks as you for a moment, his eyes studying you intently. He deflates a little, his face falling, then he nods.

In spite of the heat in the air, you feel a chill run the length of your spine.

It’s as though the last ember of the waning flame of hope that you’d been holding onto has finally been snuffed out.

The hospital room was cold as you sat at Marco’s bedside, watching him sleep.

The chair you'd been passing your days in was uncomfortable: old, wooden, and hard on your back. When you slept - if you slept - you used your jacket as a pillow and looped your legs over one of the armrests in a meagre attempt to find comfort. But the position had grown familiar after having spent three days there, and you grew numb to the pain.

Jean came to visit every day – in turn forcing you to leave to bathe, eat a meal, and take at least one breath of fresh air. The other cadets from the 104th stopped by periodically too, but things outside the hospital’s walls were picking up, and arrangements were being made to return you all to the Cadet Corps base in just a few days’ time.

The thought of departing Trost without Marco made you feel sick.

You surveyed the bandages on his face, not a patch of his freckled skin visible under the tight linen wrappings. The nurses came in twice a day to change them, and you forced yourself to look away each time – the sight of what laid underneath too grisly for you to stomach. If you stared too long at the bandages you felt an anxiety bloom in the pit of your stomach, threatening to swallow you whole. But the steady rise and fall of his chest while he slept comforted you, so you focused on those repetitive motions instead.

You leaned forward, reaching for his unwounded hand. His touch was still warm.

You shifted slowly from your seat, kneeling beside his bed. You pressed his palm flat against the side of your face, cradling your cheek in his hand like he always used to.

Marco.

You didn’t know how to face being apart from him. Not knowing when he would wake.

If he would wake at all.

A tear slipped from the corner of your eye, wetting his limp fingers as you held them to your cheek. You lifted his hand to your lips to gently kiss away the tear before placing his hand back down atop the bed.

You shifted, crooking your arm against the edge of his mattress and laying your head down atop it. Your eyes fluttered shut as you listened to the soft rhythmic inhalations and exhalations of him breathing, matching the pace of your own breath to his.

When your eyes opened again a few quiet moments later, you stared once more at his hand as it rested, unmoving, just a few inches away from your face. You reached for it with the hand not nestled beneath your temple.

You fell asleep just like that: kneeling on stone, face pressed into the scratchy sheet of his hospital bed, breathing in tandem with the boy you loved.

Your pinkies linked together.

Jean finds you again later that night in your office, though you haven’t been able to focus on much since the disaster on the training course earlier that day.

He walks into your small office uninvited, not bothering to wait for a response once he raps twice on your door.

“Knocking doesn’t mean much if you just walk right in anyway,” you grumble. You’re leaning on your elbows atop your desk, with your chin propped in your palms - you look up from the papers on your cluttered desk to glare weakly at him.

“It’s symbolic,” Jean says with a dismissive wave of his hand. He moves a stack of books off his favourite chair on the right side of your cluttered office and plunks himself into it. You return your attention to the schematics in front of you, but you’re not really paying attention anymore – not with Jean’s gaze burning a hole into the side of your face.

“You didn’t eat,” he says flatly, eyes still fixed on you.

“I lost track of time.”

“Bullshit,” Jean scoffs, clearly seeing through you, “you just didn’t want to face him.”

You huff, letting your hands fall to the surface of your desk with a thump.

“And? Is it so wrong to want to spare myself the agony of being around him?”

Jean sighs.

“I know you’re sleeping together.”

You freeze, eyes still honed in on the sheet of paper in front of you though you can no longer see it.

“I’ve known for a while,” Jean continues when you say nothing in response, but he says the words almost warily, like even though he’s already started speaking he’s still not sure if he should. “Or I suspected it at least. Marco’s always got scratches all over him, and you’re the only person stupid enough to get anywhere near the bastard to leave those kind of marks.”

You still say nothing, hands clenching into fists atop the surface of your desk. Your nails bite into the flesh of your palms – though you barely feel the sting.

“How long?” Jean asks, and you can’t avoid his gaze any longer.

You look up at him, meeting his eyes with trepidation.

“I didn’t tell him anything. I just-”

“How long, Reader?” he’s not accusatory in his words, and his face isn’t unkind as he says it: he just wants to know.

“Since the Solstice,” you whisper, eyes turning downcast again under the weight of the admission.

You feel sick.

“Shit,” Jean sighs, slumping further back in his seat across from you, “way longer than I thought.”

You both sit, exhausted, on either side of your desk - the two of you silently processing the ramifications of your long-overdue admission.

“I knew I should have dragged him to Trost with me for the holiday.” When Jean finally speaks again, he’s resigned but not angry. His tone is almost wry – like this was an inevitable fate.

Maybe he’s right about that.

“I mean it, you know,” you repeat yourself suddenly, a little less timid now with surety seeping into your tone. “I haven’t told him anything about us, or our past. I wouldn’t do anything that might impede his recov-“

“I’m not worried just about him, genius.”

Jean’s face is soft, and you see the same mien of pity in his expression that you’d seen in Connie’s earlier that day. You blink away the wetness that forms in the corners of your eyes at the implication of his words.

You’ve cried enough today.

Frankly, you’ve cried enough in the past three years to put the briny depths of the sea to shame.

You’ve long grown tired of the tears.

“Well, it’s over now,” you say, your voice soft but resolute.

“Listen, I know that things have been rough lately,” Jean says, his voice drained but reassuring, “but things can still-”

“I can’t. I can’t do it anymore, Jean,” you stop him before he can say more, before he can try to stoke the cinders where your last flicker of hope has burned to ash. “I’m losing my mind over this. He’s all I think about, all the time. He’s here, within my reach, but somehow I feel like I’m losing him all over again.”

Jean’s eyes flit around your face for a moment. You wonder what he’s thinking. After a bit of quiet contemplation, he stands from his seat.

“It’s a big day tomorrow, you oughta go get some sleep.”

You nod a little, biting your lip.

You want to talk about it more. You want to let all of these feelings that have been building up, bubbling to the surface and threatening to overflow for so long, out. You want to talk to Jean, the only other person who has any idea what you’ve been through – the only one who truly understands the pain of loving Marco and watching him go through this.

But you don’t.

“Night, Jean.”

He crosses the room to the door, pausing for a moment with his hand on the door knob. He looks back at you, an almost tortured look on his face, like there’s something else he wants to say. You watch the conflict play out across his features, but he clearly makes up his mind to stay silent, leaving without another word.

You sigh once your door has clicked shut behind him, slouching into your seat like a puppet that’s been cut from its strings.

You should feel relieved, having both confessed to your affair and come to terms with letting it go. Relinquishing that weight should have left you feeling light, but instead you’re left hollow and empty.

Your eyes flicker down to the papers on your desk that you’d abandoned once Jean arrived. Sighing lightly, you settle back for a night of work. You know sleep won’t come easy, but you’ll work until your eyes feel heavy, words blurring on the pages in front of you until you can’t resist the pull of slumber any longer.

You’re used to falling asleep with a page in your grip.

“Got another letter from Marco today,” Jean said as you walked side by side through the corridors of the Survey Corps base, arms laden with files you were bringing up to Commander Erwin’s office.

You turned to look at him, eyes widening in excitement. You almost dropped your armload of papers in surprise.

“And?” you asked him eagerly, just like you always did when you learned of a new letter from Marco. There was suddenly an extra buoyancy in your step as you walked.

“He says his ODM training is going well, the food is terrible, and he’s been banned from sparring with the other cadets during practice because he keeps beating the shit out of them.” Jean snickered to himself at the last bit.

Marco had recently transferred back to the Training Corps to retrain before re-entering the military. He was quick to pick things up again according to his letters, though he and Shadis were butting heads at every possible opportunity - Marco had some choice words to say about the head instructor in his correspondence, but Jean normally skipped over those bits when he read them to you.

You laughed a little, but felt a twinge in your chest. You still weren’t used to hearing about this new side of Marco - but you knew it was only temporary, and took comfort from knowing that he otherwise seemed to be doing well.

“So what memory did he write about this time?” you asked, adjusting the heavy stack of papers in your grasp.

As part of Marco’s recovery, his doctor said it would be useful to keep track of whatever memories came back to him by writing them down – the physician had likely meant in a journal of some sort, but Marco chose instead to send the memories to Jean. It was killing two birds with one stone, you supposed: Marco was following the doctor’s orders and fulfilling his promise to Jean so that he, in exchange, would send news of any developments in the Survey Corps.

“Something about his old dog… Ozzy?” Jean grappled to remember the name, his brow furrowing as he reflected on the content of the letter.

“Otto?” you asked, lighting up at the mention of the name.

“Ah, yeah, that’s the one,” Jean agreed.

“Is it the story about the afternoon when he got lost in the woods looking for salamanders and Otto found him just before dark?” you asked, smiling wistfully to yourself. “I love that story.”

“Yeah, it is,” Jean replied quietly in affirmation, and you looked at him, only to find him peering at you curiously. He quickly looked away.

The two of you dropped the papers off to Commander Smith’s office, excusing yourselves with a salute before shuffling out.

With the last of your assigned tasks for the day accomplished, the two of you made your way towards the meal hall ahead of dinner.

“Hey,” Jean’s voice stopped you in your tracks, and you turned to look at him. He was a few paces away from you, having clearly stopped walking a few steps behind, though you hadn’t noticed.

“Here.” Jean reached into the interior pocket of his uniform jacket and pulled out a creased envelope. He held it out to you.

“What’s this?” you asked, taking the envelope in your hands. It had already been unsealed, and when you flipped it over and saw the familiar writing scrawled across the front, you knew why.

“You can keep that, if you want,” Jean said, toeing awkwardly at the ground beneath his feet.

Your lips parted, then closed again, at a loss for words.

“Thank you,” you said quietly in response, though the words felt wholly insufficient.

“Yeah, yeah.” Jean waved away the sentimentality. “You can give me your bread at dinner if you really appreciate it that much.”

“You wish,” you bit back.

He smiled, and you returned the gesture.

You fell asleep that night with Marco’s letter held tightly in your hands, having read the words three times over before your eyelids finally lost the battle against the sleep they were fighting.

Jean gave you all of Marco’s letters after that.

The next morning when you wake, you feel empty.

You’re still sore, only now you have an ache in your hollow chest to accompany the one lingering in your muscles. You know without a semblance of a doubt which pain is worse.

Your mind goes immediately to the box tucked under your bed, full of envelopes containing pages you’d read so many times over you’ve committed them to memory.

You make a note to get rid of them soon.

You don’t bother eating breakfast once you’re ready for the day, your appetite virtually non-existent even though you skipped dinner the night before. You stop by the meal hall only to drink a cup of tea and pocket an apple in case you get hungry later on and can’t stave off the pangs until lunch. It’s late in the morning, and there are only a few people lingering in the hall – most of them having already made their way to their various posts, the day already well underway.

With your apple in your pocket and tea drained, you make your way towards the front entrance of the base, mentally preparing yourself for the task ahead: the day that the first members of the Survey Corps depart to infiltrate Marley has finally arrived.

The preparations have been ongoing for months, keeping you awake at night, and finally the day that you’ve long been dreading has come. Every step you take towards where your friends are gathering to depart feels agonizing.

Not many people come to bid farewell to the small group - their departure playing out rather inconspicuously. Most other soldiers of the Survey Corps weren’t aware of the precise details of the relatively confidential mission, and those who were high ranking enough to be in the know had other matters to attend to. However, the infiltration was composed of the majority of your closest companions: your friends from the 104th, Levi, Hange. You couldn’t let them leave without seeing them off.

Hange had ordered you to stay behind when the plan was first conceived; entrusting you to help coordinate the eventual large scale infiltration and to see the preparations through in their absence.

As for Marco? Well, he was just too conspicuous looking – and too much of a wildcard, on top of that.

The group is cheerful when you arrive, spirits high in the face of this new undertaking. You make a point of hugging everyone in turn, though opting for a firm handshake with Levi.

Hange ruffles your hair and tells you not to burn the place down while they’re gone.

Sasha promises to bring you home a treat, and Connie promises to try his best to make sure she doesn’t eat it on the journey home.

Mikasa tells you not to forget to work on your abdominal training while she’s away, reminding you it will help with your ODM maneuvering.

Armin tells you to get lots of rest and to remember to eat.

Eren says nothing, but you can’t help but notice how he seems to cling to you just a little tighter than you expected when you give him a hug. You don’t question it.

You finally get to Jean.

He has his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers, his head tilted to the side as he appraises you.

“Look after him for me,” Jean says, and you don’t need to ask who he means. Not that the man he was alluding to had even bothered to show up to see the group off.

You look over his broad shoulder at your friends as they laugh and chatter among themselves.

God, you really hate goodbyes.

“At least don’t let him kill any rookies,” Jean jokes, pulling your attention back to him.

“I couldn’t stop him even if I wanted to,” you mutter sullenly.

Jean laughs but doesn't disagree, reaching out and ruffling your hair.

He hesitates, his large palm still resting atop your head. You blink up at him curiously.

His hand slides back to the crown of your head, and in one fluid motion he tugs you forward to wrap his arms around your neck in a tight hug. You freeze momentarily, unaccustomed to this sort of intimacy with Jean, but it only takes a second for you to bury your face into his chest, your own arms winding around his middle to crush yourself tighter against his frame.

You very suddenly feel like you could cry.

“Be safe and make it back in one piece,” you order him firmly as you pull away, trying and failing to hide the waver in your voice as you poke him in the chest for emphasis. “Or at least bring all the pieces with you so I can patch you back together.”

He laughs, reaching up and pinching your cheek – not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to annoy you and leave your cheek pink when he pulls away. “I’ll try my best.”

He steps away, and your hand shoots out to grab his sleeve. He pauses, turning back to you with an inquisitive look on his face.

“Come home soon, Jean,” you say to him quietly.

His playful smile softens into something more wistful, but still laced with fondness.

“I will.”

You can’t help but remember when someone else said those words to you too.

You watched as the soldiers around you prepared to part ways, designated as support to distract the invading titans while Eren worked to seal the hole that had been smashed through the wall in Trost.

It was still hard to wrap your head around everything – the wall being broken, the ensuing bloodletting you’d witnessed firsthand, and the fact that the foolhardy boy you’d known for years was able to turn into a ferocious, boulder-carrying beast.

You’d hardly had a chance to process anything since the breach, too busy trying to fall in line with the rest of the soldiers. To do your duty. To be where you were needed, when you were needed. All the while keeping one eye on Marco – who was busy doing the exact same to you.

It was a miracle you’d both managed to survive the attack – so many of your fellow cadets from the Training Corps had met brutal ends, right before your very eyes. But by some stroke of dumb luck, you’d both lived. You were both still breathing. Still warm to the touch where the decimated bodies littering the streets of Trost were growing cold.

You looked out at the city with a heavy, grim feeling in your chest. It was bitter in your throat, tasting unmistakably of guilt.

“Hey,” Marco’s voice was soft as he approached. He reached for your hand, his touch gentle and light – his tenderness juxtaposed by the chaos and the carnage surrounding you. His gesture was a semblance of sanctuary in the face of unspeakable danger.

You turned to him.

“It’s almost time to head out, they’re about to call the order,” Marco said, fingers twining through yours.

You had been assigned to separate squads for this part of the mission, and the thought of being separated from him was more frightening to you than the task ahead. Dread swelled fiercely in your chest, crushing against your ribs, as you thought about it.

As though sensing your spiralling thoughts, Marco tapped his pinky lightly on the back of your hand – a reminder he was there. That he cared.

He cleared his throat a little. “Hey, I just-”

“No goodbyes,” you said firmly, eyes snapping to his immediately - detecting the words he was about to say without him even parting his lips to say them. He blinked in surprise at your interjection, though his expression quickly softened.

“No goodbyes,” he repeated with a little laugh, but his warm brown eyes burned with something unsaid as they bore into your own.

“I’ll see you at the end of this.” You squeezed his hand lightly as you said the words.

“You will.”

You wanted to say more, but you didn’t have the time – a squad leader nearby calling troops to attention in preparation for departure. With little care for who may have been watching, you pulled Marco in for a kiss, crashing your mouths together clumsily. There was no finesse, no refinement to that meeting of your lips – just pure desperation and uninhibited adoration. His hands gripped your waist, holding you flush to him in response – any distance between you was too much in those final moments together.

“Be safe,” you said to him quietly once you pulled apart, your tone pleading - even though you knew that between the two of you, you were by far the one who had the most to worry about. He knew it too, and his concern was plain in his gaze as he looked at you.

“I will.”

With one last glance back towards Marco, you stepped away to join your squad.

You couldn’t help but think that even without saying the words, it felt eerily similar to a goodbye.

It comes as no surprise when you once again find yourself in the familiar, well-worn seat of your desk chair, spending yet another late night in your office. You’ve been going over the same blueprints and schematics for hours, though you’ve made little progress.

Your mind has been elsewhere for much of the day.

The day was lonely without your friends around to bother you, and while you kept yourself busy as to not dwell on the ache you feel in your chest in their absence, you can never completely forget it's there.

You set the annotated page in your hand down with a resigned sigh. You’ve grown too tired to keep working, and don’t feel like sleeping on your desk tonight - you’ve learned from ample experience that paper makes a terrible pillow.

You extinguish the lamps in your tiny, disorganized office, and begin making your way back to your quarters. Your bed calls out to you like a beacon from the other side of the base but your feet drag as you shuffle through the quiet corridors - your body heavy under the weight of your own exhaustion.

The heat that had been plaguing the grounds for the past few days has mercifully broken, thanks to a thunder and lightning storm earlier in the afternoon – the air was cooler, though still a little humid due to the rain now beating down on everything in its path. Your uniform clings to your skin from the moisture in the air, but the smell of rain that lingers with it is comforting.

Your nose is turned up in the air, breathing deep, when another familiar scent hits you.

Tobacco.

You turn the corner, and though you already know what’s coming, it doesn’t make the sight any more pleasant.

Marco is perched on a window sill a few metres away, his cigarette burning low between his lips as he waits for you. You watch as the grey smoke curls behind him, getting lost in the darkness of the night beyond the open window.

The steady pitter-patter of rain outside is the only sound between you in the dark hallway.

“Hey.”

You pause at the sound of his voice, glancing for a moment out of the corner of your eye without turning to him. Then you keep walking.

“Hey,” he repeats himself, as though you missed it the first time. You hear the sound of him stamping out his cigarette and his footsteps following in your wake.

“What’s your problem?” he asks you, his irritation plain in his words.

“Nothing,” you don’t break your stride as you respond coldly, but his long legs easily match your pace.

“You’re not still pissy about the training course the other day, are you?” he questions you gruffly, growing more impatient by the minute.

When isn’t he, though?

“Go away, Marco.” Your tone equally rivals his level of annoyance as you spit back your reply.

That’s a new development.

Marco grabs you suddenly and pulls you to a stop, his hand circling your upper arm. You turn to look at him, eyes narrowed in disgruntlement. You expect him to be angry when you look to him, but instead he looks frustrated.

He doesn't let go of your arm.

“Why are you acting like this? You’ve never done this before.”

“It's not like you'd remember even if I had.”

You know it’s a low blow, but the words spring forth before you can think better of them.

He blinks at you, his hand dropping limply to his side like he’s been licked by a flame.

You feel sick to your stomach.

“Goodbye, Marco.” The word feels like a knife driving into your gut as you say it, but you force it out as you turn away.

“Don’t say that!” he snaps immediately in irritation, all three of your eyes widening when his words register.

A beat of silence passes. It’s uncomfortable, and as charged as the lightning that had crackled through the sky only a few hours prior.

“What?” you ask him quietly, turning slowly to face him again.

“Just… never mind,” he mutters as he pushes past you, a hand pressed to his head like it’s aching. He walks quickly away, disappearing around the corner at the opposite end of the hall without looking back.

He leaves you dumbfounded in his wake, the rain outside nothing in comparison to the storm that has overtaken your mind.

You looked up as Marco walked into the meal hall, Jean at his side.

You felt like the air had been siphoned from your lungs.

Seeing Marco in the Survey Corps uniform for the first time was bittersweet. You’d pictured it a million times, and yet somehow it still was completely beyond all your expectations.

He was fitter than when you’d last seen him, almost two years prior. His chest was broader than it had once been as he stood with his shoulders back and head held high. You knew he was training and doing rehabilitation following his injury, but judging by his appearance he had clearly thrown himself into it – he was still tall and lean, but his musculature was clearly defined where previously his frame had been lanky and boyish. His dark hair had grown longer too, curling at the ends as it brushed against the tops of his ears.

He looked good.

Really good.

Another noticeable difference in his appearance was he wore a dark patch covering the eye on the scarred right half of his face - his good eye left to peer out around the room warily. His lips were downturned at the corner, nodding along every so often to whatever Jean was saying.

Your throat seemed to grow tighter with every step he took closer to you.

“And this is the 104th – er, what’s left of us anyway,” Jean said when he finally made it to the table where you and your friends were seated.

Everyone hesitated as Marco looked at you all.

“Hello,” Marco said a little stiffly “I’m Marco Bodt.”

“Damn, you really don’t remember us, do you?” Sasha asked bluntly through a mouthful of food. Connie elbowed her roughly in the side in response.

“No, I don’t.” Marco said flatly, though he didn’t seem to be fazed by Sasha’s callousness. “My doctor says the memories I lost after the Battle of Trost might not return.”

“Well, Marco, I’m Connie. Connie Springer. I’m sort of the ring leader around here,” Connie said with unfounded self-assuredness and a nonchalant wave of his hand.

“Is he the one you told me never to believe?” Marco asked flatly, turning to face Jean for confirmation.

“That’s him,” Jean said with a nod of affirmation, his lip twitching up at the corner.

Everyone took turns introducing themselves, and eventually your turn came last, sitting at the seat furthest from them at the table.

“Hi,” you said, eventually finding your tongue. You introduced yourself.

Marco said nothing in response.

“Can we eat now?” Marco asked, turning back to Jean again. You watched as he raised his scarred hand to rub lightly at his temple.

Jean blinked in surprise, but quickly composed himself, nodding and pointing out where the food was being served, leading him away with a brief, apologetic glance towards you as they left.

Everyone was a little taken aback once they were gone. They’d really thought he would recognize you.

You secretly had too. At least you’d hoped he would.

It felt naïve now.

That was the first of many disappointments to come.

You smell the smoke long before you see the fire.

It hangs heavy in the air, unpleasant and far reaching, and when you hear the commotion outside the window of your office you rush to it, spotting the thick cloud of inky black billowing from the direction of the labs.

“What the hell is going on?” you call down to a soldier jogging past below your window.

The soldier looks up in fright at the sudden sound of your voice, saluting when he recognizes you.

“Fire in the third lab, ma’am! The fire pump is filling at the well now!”

The third lab. It makes sense based on where you spot the smoke rising – and you know they’ve been working on experimental explosives, so it doesn’t altogether surprise you to hear. Frankly, you’re a little amazed it took this long for a fire to break out in the first place.

But then you remember something that has you rushing into action.

You pull on your ODM gear quickly from the closet on the other side of your office - fingers racing through the process with an ease that only time and repetition brings. Once your harnesses are secured, you dash across base to the lab, finding a crowd gathered outside the burning building.

Half of the structure is burning, while the other seems to still be relatively unaffected by the blaze. The crowd watches with only mild interest as the flames grow, chatting amongst themselves. No one seems to be taking it too seriously since everyone made it out.

“We’re all accounted for,” Milo Tonks, an engineer who works in the third lab explains when you arrive, getting you up to speed. He seems as unbothered as the rest of the soldiers gathered in spite of his lab burning before his bespectacled eyes. “We’re just waiting for them to bring some water from the well to douse the blaze. It’ll probably burn out before they even get here.”

You turn to him, your face grave.

“Did anyone get the schematics for the thunder spear improvements out before the evacuation?”

A look passes between Milo and the other engineers clustered together, their previously blithe expressions suddenly growing concerned.

“Oh fuck,” you mumble bitterly, eyes flickering to the building as a particularly loud crack rips through the air, flames breaking through a section of the roof a few metres away.

You don’t have time to be furious, you tell yourself, that can come later. Presently, there are schematics that needed to be retrieved – the single existing copy of these particular, recently drafted developments that are going to be essential to the Survey Corps’ success in Marley. As such, you’re left with no choice but to act.

You assess the building for a moment - briefer than you probably should, but longer than you really have to waste. You aim your ODM gear at a high point of the building and pull the trigger.

Luckily the fire hasn’t yet spread to this part of the lab, concentrated mainly on the opposite end of the building, and you use the momentum from your gear to kick in a window at the top of the stairwell - hurtling through the pane feet first, shattering it on impact. You roll to the ground when you land, standing and quickly brushing some bits of broken glass from your clothes. You know time is of the essence so you keep things brief, quickly making sure you weren’t cut by any errant shards and continuing on your way.

The smoke has risen to the upper floor, and you keep an elbow crooked over your face to protect your nose and mouth as you push through the door into the design room. You rip open the cabinet housing blueprints, find the thunder spear schematics, and tuck the papers hastily into the waistband of your trousers to keep them safe. The smoke is getting thicker now, pricking your eyes as you crouch low to the ground to avoid it, and you know you need to get out.

Back in the hall, the fire has spread to the stairwell, surprising you. You’ve been in the building for no more than a few minutes, but the flames are growing faster than you anticipated - rapidly consuming anything in their destructive path. With your exit point no longer accessible, you have to quickly pivot your plan. But it’s hot, and now nearly impossible to see thanks to the smoke, so you have to feel your way along a wall until you reach an empty room you know has a window.

You quickly close the door behind you with your foot once you’ve crawled inside, peeling off your jacket and using it to block the gap under the door in a weak attempt to slow the smoke from forcing its way in.

The collar of your uniform shirt sticks to the skin of your sweat-slicked neck as you brush your hair back from your face. It’s hot, your lungs are burning, and you’re losing your ability to think clearly. When you turn to finally look towards the window, blinking against the smoke in your eyes, your heart sinks in your aching chest.

There’s a tall filing cabinet in front of the window, and you can’t believe the odds. You haven’t been to this part of the lab in a while, and it must have recently been put there to keep it out of the way. You stay as low to the ground as you can to avoid the smoke as you approach, but you have to stand to try and move it - forcing your face up into the dark, charred brume overhead as you rise to your feet.

You push against the cabinet with all of your might, but it’s sturdy and solid - far larger than you and weighing more than you could ever dream of moving on your own. Unwilling to give up, you brace one foot on the wall beside you, and shove hard against the cabinet with your shoulder.

It barely budges.

Choking and sputtering on the hot, ash-filled air that congests your mouth, nose and throat, you collapse to your hands and knees - slumping down as you finally run out of breath.

Fuck.

You survived this long, went to hell and back against the Titans beyond the wall, only to die on base. You could almost smile wryly at the unfortunate turn of events.

What a pitiful way to go out.

You think of Marco as your forehead rests against the floorboards beneath you, the heat from the fire making them warm to the touch. Then you think of Jean. Finally, your thoughts turn to your friends who were likely setting foot on enemy ground at that very moment. You hope they win the war, even if you’re not there to help them.

You hear a loud crash just before everything goes black.

When you wake again, your throat is dry, and there’s a dull throbbing in your head.

The sheets covering your body are scratchy and unfamiliar, and the bed is too firm and uncomfortable to be your own. You lift your face from the pillow beneath it.

Where the hell are you?

You peel your eyes open, and blink against the harsh light cutting across your face. You squint in the direction of the window on the wall – there’s light coming through the heavy curtains, even though they’re drawn. It’s just a crack between the panels, letting only a small sliver of brightness in, but it’s annoying enough for you to turn your face to avoid the glare. Your eyes hurt – they’re not as dry as your throat but are close to it - and they sting as you blink in rapid succession to get a better view of your surroundings.

Things gradually come into focus, but even when they do they’re no more clear.

You’re in a hospital room – that much is evident. But what you don’t expect to see in the unremarkable room is Marco asleep in the chair beside your bed. His arms are crossed over his chest as he dozes; his head drooping forward slightly towards his chest.

You know that position isn’t comfortable from experience – you slept in a chair just like that one in his hospital room in Trost.

You force your gaze away from the sleeping young man to survey the room once more. You need water desperately, and you’re pleased to find a cup resting on the table just beside your bed. You reach for it, only to find it disappointingly empty.

You sigh lightly, looking around the room, and you spot a pitcher of water on a table against the opposite wall.

You throw your legs over the side of the bed. The cold stone floor is an unpleasant sensation against the bare soles of your feet, having previously been tucked under warm bedsheets. You creep across the room with your empty cup in hand, pouring yourself a glass of water before tilting it up to your lips.

The water is refreshing, despite it being tepid, as you gulp it down to soothe your parched throat. But you’re too greedy in your thirst – the water stings as you swallow, and you find yourself coughing lightly into your palm as your eyes prick with tears of exertion. You set the cup down, gasping for breath, and turn back towards the bed, only to see a brown eye staring at you - open and alert.

“Oh right. You can hear better now,” you remark, voice hoarse, realizing your cough woke him – if not the mere sound of you shuffling across the floor.

Marco says nothing in response.

“Is there a reason you’re here?” you ask him, crossing your arms in front of you as you look to him expectantly for an answer.

You watch as his jaw clenches, but still he says nothing.

You take his silence as an opportunity to openly scrutinize him. His dark hair’s a little dishevelled, his clothes rumpled. He looks even grumpier than he usually does.

He’s clearly not a morning person.

Suddenly, like a shot out of nowhere, you remember the third lab, the fire, and the room with no exit. You heave a frantic gasp: “The schematics.”

Marco’s face flickers with something akin to relief, though reticent, as he sees you suddenly remember what happened and why you found yourself in the hospital in the first place.

“Are fine,” he finally speaks, his voice still a little hoarse from sleep. He looks away from you and purses his lips before adding a reluctant: “Because of you.”

You blink, not quite believing what you’ve heard.

Was that… commendation?

You make an incredulous sort of noise, and he shoots you a cold look.

“If you expect me to say I think you running into a burning building was a brilliant idea, I’m not going to,” he snaps, as if reading your mind. “But you saved us months of work redeveloping those blueprints – months we don’t have.”

“How did I get out?” you ask quietly, your arms still crossed – though now rather than a defensive stance, you feel as if you’re holding yourself for comfort. You remember the immovable weight of the filing cabinet, the acrid smoke clogging your lungs, the realization that you were going to die, and then suddenly the faintest smell of mint.

You come to the conclusion only a fraction of a second before he speaks again.

“I’m getting sick of saving your life.”

It was him.

Your knees give out, dropping yourself into the chair behind you. Marco shifts slightly, settling back when he sees you’ve caught yourself in the seat.

“What happened to the lab?” you eventually find it in you to ask.

“Don’t know.” Marco shrugs. “I’ve been here.”

The silence that settles over you both is suffocating.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize abashedly, shattering the stillness of the room after a few moments of reflection. You know that what you did was reckless.

“Don’t apologize,” Marco says derisively, looking away and sucking a breath of air in through his teeth, “just stop needing to be saved. I find it very… agitating.”

“Agitating?” you ask, your heart flipping treacherously in your chest at his words.

Marco’s hands ball into fists as they rest atop his knees.

“When you’re in danger, I feel angry.” His brow furrows as he says the words, like they’re confusing even to him. “I feel like I’m gonna lose it if anything were to…”

You blink at him.

He meets your gaze but doesn’t conclude the thought he’d started to express.

The minute that passes between you may as well have been a century.

“Who were you to me? Before my accident?”

His voice is quiet, but as imperious as if he’d screamed the words. They knock the air from your lungs all the same.

You want nothing more than to tell him everything that has been eating away at you - to be honest where for so long you’ve been forced to hold back.

To tell him that you loved him.

That you still do.

No matter what you’ve been trying to tell yourself.

You draw a deep breath into your empty lungs, steeling your resolve. You force yourself to meet his uncovered eye.

“The two of us…” you swallow hard over the knot in your throat, “we were both cadets in the southern division of the hundred and fourth.”

It’s not a lie, but it burns like one. The words feel heavy and wrong on your tongue. The omission of the truth comes easily to you after all these years, but the pang in your heart is the same as it was on the day you saw him for the first time and couldn’t throw yourself into his arms like you yearned to.

He looks at you and you can’t help but think, just for a moment, that he looks almost disappointed. Then his face is blank and inscrutable once more.

“I should go get the doctor, he’ll want to know you’re awake.” Marco stands from his chair and crosses the room towards the door.

Your lips part to say something, anything, but you falter – unsure of exactly what it is you want to express.

“Thank you, Marco,” is what you settle on, the words meek but sincere as they slip from your lips.

He pauses at the door, his hand gripping the doorframe with white knuckles.

He doesn’t turn, and slips from the door without acknowledging you said anything at all.

The doctor appears in your dingy hospital room shortly after Marco leaves, though notably alone, and stays just long enough to give you a thorough exam and have a short chat.

You weren’t seriously injured in the fire, though the physician suspects you may have hit your head after you blacked out - it was mainly the smoke inhalation that had concerned him, and he decides to keep you in hospital for the better part of the day just to observe your condition. Later in the evening, after a brief warning to take it easy for a few days to recuperate (and stern professional guidance not to run into any more burning buildings) you are allowed to leave.

You return to your quarters after being discharged, bathe, and pull rank on the soldiers working kitchen duty to slip you some food even though dinner had long ended. But as the evening gives way to the night, you feel listless, uncertain of where you should be or what you should be doing, and eventually you find your way to your office.

You feel fine, maybe a little tired. But you're more mentally drained than anything else.

You push open the door, and to your surprise you find that there’s a lamp already lit on the other side, burning low and casting the room in a dim wash of light. You freeze in the doorway, your heart stuttering in your chest.

Marco is perched on the edge of your desk, reading a piece of paper you’re sure doesn’t belong to him. He looks up when you enter, but he doesn’t seem surprised to see you.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he says pointedly, his eye returning to the paper in his hands, “the doctor told you to take at least a few days to recover. You should be resting.”

“I’m fine.” The words are dismissive and a little curt. You want to ask him why he cares, how he knew you’d been ordered to take a few days off. Your brow furrows as a more pressing question comes to mind. “How did you know I’d come?”

He looks suddenly conflicted by that question, like not even he’s fully aware of the answer.

“You work too hard.” Is the response he gives.

You stare at him blankly for a moment. It’s an awfully astute observation considering you didn’t think he noticed anything about you. The energy in the room shifts as you look to one another, and he sets the piece of paper he has in his hands down without breaking your gaze.

You stand on opposite sides of the room, but it feels as if there are a million miles between you.

“Ever since I woke up, I’ve been having these dreams,” Marco says quietly, thoughtfully. He shakes his head a little bit. “I always just assumed they were dreams, anyway.”

“What are they about?” you hear yourself ask over the sudden thundering of your heartbeat in your ears.

“Stupid shit most of the time. Like learning how to ride a horse. Or using ODM gear for the first time and not knowing what the fuck I’m doing. They’re memories, I think, even though I don’t recognize them,” he says, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck as his gaze flickers away from you. “But sometimes I dream about things I know can’t be memories, because I know they never happened - like ranking number one in cadet training, or beating the shit out of some big blonde guy. I think those ones are just the things I used to dream about. Before the accident.”

You nod a little.

“Sometimes...” he trails off, like he’s uncertain. You’re not used to seeing Marco doubt himself, not this Marco anyway. Soon, he seems to find his resolve, his eye meeting yours once more. “Sometimes I dream about you.”

You feel nauseated at his words. Inundated by them. Completely and utterly overwhelmed.

“What about me?” you ask gently, treading carefully like you’re walking on a bridge made of glass – conscious that at any moment it could shatter underfoot and send you plummeting to a painful, unavoidable annihilation.

“Little things,” he says, lips pursing contemplatively as he reflects back, “from the training corps I think. Studying together. Sparring together and letting you win. Sitting underneath a tree with you and looking at a field.”

Your heart leaps into your throat.

“And other things,” he adds, holding your gaze.

“Other things?” you can barely force the words out.

“Kissing you. Holding you. Fucking you in the loft above the stables in the dead of night, and then helping you pick hay out of your hair on our way back to the dorms.”

You freeze. You can barely process your thoughts, let alone form a response.

You don’t want this.

You want closure.

Finality.

Certainty.

Not the dangerous flicker of optimism - of hope - that licks in your stomach like a flame you thought had finally dwindled and died.

“And then imagine my surprise when I saw you for the first time,” Marco says with a markedly mirthless laugh, “the same girl who’d been in my dreams since the day I woke up. And now I don’t know what’s real and what was a dream. So now I’m asking you again:” He takes a step towards you, staring down at you from his towering height. “Who were you to me before my accident?”

“Who do you think I was?” you ask diffidently.

“I don’t know, but think I was in love with you,” he says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like it doesn’t feel like a punch to your gut, knocking the breath clear out of your lungs.

Your heart feels like it’s about to burst.

“So, was I?” he asks again, still peering down at you intently. You find yourself unable to look away.

“I can’t answer that for you,” you murmur, though you feel you probably can.

“Fine,” he snaps impatiently, agitated at your unforthcoming response, “then were you in love with me?”

This question you can answer in no uncertain terms.

“Yes,” you say softly, too terrified to say it any louder lest it hurt more than it already does. You immediately look away.

There’s an uncanny silence in the dim room, but your heartbeat is so loud you’re sure he can hear it echoing from within your chest.

You feel the scarred skin of his right palm touch your cheek; the brush of his skin against yours is cautious, like he’s testing the water.

It’s the gentlest he’s touched you in over three years.

Your eyes snap to his face, just in time to see him lean in.

His lips press to yours and you feel like the floor has been pulled from beneath the soles of your boots, the entire world shifting on its axis at the moment where your mouths meet. You melt into him immediately, collapsing into his touch. Your hands reach to grip the material of his shirt, clinging desperately to him like he’s all you have.

Because he is.

He has been.

He always will be.

He pulls back, his eyelid fluttering open slowly to appraise you.

“And now?” he asks, his warm breath breaking across your lips as he says the words.

“What?” you ask him softly, confused as your head spins. You can barely gather enough coherence to force the word from your lips.

“Do you still love me?”

“I do.” You don’t have to think twice about it.

He pauses, his gaze flickering around your face.

“You waited for me all this time.”

“I did.”

“The old me.”

The words make you pause. And finally, it’s like you see things clearly.

For years you’ve been pining after a boy who was never coming back. Not really. Even if Marco regained every memory he’d ever lost, he would still be different from who he was then. Time had changed him in the same way it changes everyone – he’d lived, suffered, and learned.

Just like you had.

You can’t believe how much time you’ve wasted pining after the old Marco, while a part of him was always there waiting for you. Dreaming of you.

“I want you, Marco. Any you.”

He leans down like he’s going to kiss you once more, but he pauses, only a hairsbreadth away. He’s so close you can see every freckle dotting across his skin, every dark eyelash that curls wispily against his cheek as he blinks. His lips are nearly on your own, and they brush against yours softly as he speaks.

“You want me, even if I’ll never be the same person that I was?”

“Even then.”

He kisses you gently, giving in to the anticipation he’d allowed to build by holding you so close. This kiss is as overwhelming as the first, your head spinning as his lips mold to yours again.

His hands reach for your waist, but he doesn’t drag you into him in the same domineering way you’ve come to expect. Instead his palms flatten against the small of your back, slowly sliding up to your shoulder blades as he holds your body to his.

His touch is firm but remains gentle; he embraces you like you’re something precious - breakable, even. It’s as though he’s taking great care not to shatter you between his scarred hands.

You stay like that for a while, lips moving languidly as Marco’s hands continue to trace the curves of your body - explorative like he’s touching you for the first time and committing you to memory.

He seems to grow impatient rather quickly, his basest instincts gaining ground against the tenderness he’d been trying to show you, and soon he’s swiping his tongue against the seam of your mouth, demanding entrance – a call which you’re all too happy to answer. Your lips part and he deepens the kiss, the tip of his tongue eagerly meeting yours.

You can’t help but let out a tiny moan against his mouth, and his grip on your body tightens.

God, you could kiss him forever. You could get lost in the way he pants against your lips; drown in the feeling of his lip between your teeth as you bite down on it lightly.

You continue this way for some time, learning and relearning every inch of the other’s mouth, until finally he pulls back, a thin string of saliva connecting your swollen lips. You watch it stretch, glistening in the lamp light, until it snaps and breaks.

“Was the tree real?” he asks you suddenly, a pensive crease appearing between his brows, like the thought had been weighing heavily on his mind.

You can’t help but laugh at his timing.

“Yes,” you say with a small nod.

“And the hayloft?” he asks again.

“Also real.”

“Did I ever…” he trails off, looking away in what seems to be embarrassment. He lets his hands drop from where they were resting on your hips and he shifts away, like he’s trying to close himself off. You don’t let him, your fingers grabbing the collar of his shirt, forcing him to stay.

You wait for him to continue, allowing him to proceed at his own pace, but you don’t release your grip.

“Did I ever ask you to marry me?”

Your mouth is suddenly dry, and your eyes wet, when he finally says the words. You shake your head, blinking against the tears you can feel threatening to fall.

He’d dreamed about proposing to you.

“I think you almost did, once,” you say quietly, voice wavering. You release your hands from where they’ve fisted the material of his shirt and allow them to lay flat against his toned chest. You feel for his heartbeat. “And for what it’s worth: I would have said yes.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I don’t know if that should make me happy,” he says, his tone a little wary.

“Does it?” you dare to ask.

“It does,” he says, though he’s clearly conflicted, “I think.”

“Your heart is beating fast,” you remark, finally feeling the rapid pulse racing beneath your palm.

“It does that around you sometimes,” he says quietly, talking about his heart like it has a mind of its own, autonomous from him. Like his heart remembered you even when his brain did not. You swallow thickly.

Marco looks like he’s at war with himself; like he doesn’t know what to do, or feel, or say. His confusion and his hesitation play out rather plainly on his face, a change from his usually stoic expression. His fingers are clenching and unclenching into fists at his side, and you suddenly realize he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

You reach down, taking his larger hands into your own, admiring the scarred skin on the back of his right hand and tracing your thumb lightly over it. He watches you closely as you do this for a moment, before he turns your hands so your palms are facing upwards atop his own. He takes his own time tracing his calloused fingertips across the lines of your palms, all the way to the tips of your fingers. Looking lost in thought, he slowly wraps his pinkies around yours.

Your heart falters in your chest as he looks up to you for confirmation, his brown eye guarded in the dim lamp light.

“Real,” you say, barely above a whisper.

You and Marco eventually stumble through the door to your quarters, though the journey there was made longer than it needed to be thanks to one of you pushing the other into walls every so often – neither of you able to go much longer than a few moments without connecting your long-parted lips.

Marco still lacks tenderness, like it’s something he’s forgotten he’s capable of, but he tries in earnest to be gentle as he undresses you and pushes you down onto the bed. He tugs his own shirt off over his head once you’ve been stripped bare, kicking off his boots and crawling on top of you. He catches your already swollen lips with his once more.

Your hands trail up over the skin of his chest, and you pause, pulling away from him.

“What?” Marco asks hoarsely from above you, confused by your withdrawal.

“I want to see you,” you say to him softly.

He eases himself off of you, perching on the edge of your bed, and you reach for the lamp atop the table at your bedside, lighting it quickly. You leave it brighter than he normally would in his own room, but not so bright that it will bother his eye. You turn to him, sitting back on your knees to appraise him.

The scars from his accident cover the upper right-hand portion of his body: across the eye which he keeps covered with his patch, along his shoulder, the top of his chest, and down his arm to the tips of his fingers. Your eyes trace over the marks, long healed but still a reminder of the injury and the pain it had caused. Marco pauses, watching you observe him.

“Pretty gruesome, huh?” he remarks flatly.

“Oh, Marco,” you sigh, utter devotion saturating the word.

His pink lips part slightly in response, and you swear you see a blush spread across his cheeks beneath the smattering of freckles that bless his skin.

You crawl towards him on the bed, pausing once your knees brush the side of his thigh, still clad in his pants. You reach up, running your hands through his soft brown hair. Your fingers dip beneath the thick leather band of his eyepatch, pausing for a moment to allow him to object. When he says nothing, you tug the article off gently. You toss the eyepatch aside, falling back to your haunches, and survey his face.

The eyelid of his right eye is badly scarred and cannot open, and there’s clearly a difference in skin tone where the patch normally rests against his skin - lighter in those places than the rest of his face from his long days spent training in the sun.

Marco’s good eye remains fixed unwaveringly on you.

“There you are,” you say softly, fondness teeming in your voice.

You sit up on your knees, and reach to cup his cheeks in your hands, pressing a gentle kiss to his scarred eye, then to his good one once it flutters closed. Next you brush your lips against the tip of his nose, each cheek, and then finally you tilt your face down to slot your mouth to his.

His hands reach for your waist as you attempt to withdraw, pulling you tighter against him. From your position on your knees, you stand a little taller than he does, his heated cheek and the flushed skin of your chest meeting in your embrace. You hold him like that for a moment, basking in the feeling of enclasping him against your heart.

When he pulls away to look up at you again, it’s like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. You both can't help but stare, enthralled, like you’re seeing each other through new eyes. Your hands caress his face, thumbs sweeping against his cheekbones, one smooth and the other scarred, before running your fingers through his hair again.

Marco loses any remaining control he was fighting to have as your nails rake against his scalp, and forces his lips so hard onto yours that you’re certain they’re going to bruise – if they haven’t already. Truthfully, you cannot bring yourself to care.

He slowly leans you back without breaking the kiss, your head meeting the soft pillow at the top of your bed, a single hand beside your face supporting his weight as he hovers over you. His other hands trails across your collarbone, fingertips tracing the flat valley between your breasts and then your sternum.

He touches you so lightly, so methodically, that with even the gentlest of grazes a warmth begins to pool between your legs - your thighs rubbing together to ease the discomfort that accompanies it. He feels the way you clench, and his hand journeys down between your legs, finding the source of your impatience.

He groans into your mouth as his fingertips meet your slit, running through the slick that has accumulated. He’s barely even touched you, and you already have arousal smearing across the tops of your thighs. He pulls back to look down at his discovery, his ring and forefinger parting your lips so his middle finger can drag up through the slickness. He pulls his hand back, much to your displeasure, peering curiously at the way your arousal coats his fingers. He admires the sight for a moment, before his eye flickers down to you. Keeping you firmly in his gaze he brings his fingers to his mouth, licking any trace of you from them.

You whimper at the sound of him sucking his own fingers. The sight is lewd, and it only makes you wetter.

He dips his head towards you, leaving a hot, open mouthed kiss flat against the valley between your breasts. You squirm beneath him, yearning for something more than just a kiss.

He trails further downwards once he’s satisfied with the way he’s marked up the skin of your breasts, pressing fleeting kisses across the skin of your abdomen as he crawls down between your legs. Finally, his mouth finds its way to the part of you that was longing for him most, the sensation of his tongue flat against your core making you throw your head back in pleasure, reaching down to tangle your fingers in his hair as his presses between your legs.

Marco’s tongue flicks up to your clit and your fingers tug against the hair in your grip. He groans at the pull, the sound reverberating against your pussy and a little whimper slips from your lips at the sensation. A white hot feeling begins coiling in your stomach like a spring, radiating its heat to every inch of your body - from the tips of your curling toes to the ends of your fingers as they rake against his scalp.

Marco loops an arm under your leg, hitching it up onto his back, while nudging your other thigh further apart with his shoulder to give him the space he needs to continue with his fervent task. His tongue moves lower, sweeping against your clenching entrance while his thumb takes up the ministrations against the sensitive bud above it.

You don’t remember the last time Marco used his mouth to make you feel this way – if he ever had. Normally he was so busy chasing his own gratification that yours was more of an afterthought, or at the very least a lower priority than achieving his release. But the way he was touching you now felt reverent, like he was worshipping you with every kiss and graze. The way he moaned against your skin told you that he was enjoying this too, in spite of the fact that the pleasure was mostly yours.

His tongue flattens, laving a long stripe up to your clit where he catches it between his lips once more. His fingers graze against your fluttering entrance, circling it gently – his touch light and teasing. You roll your hips up, desperate for more contact, for more of him. His eye flickers up towards you, and at the moments where your gazes meet he sucks hard.

It’s a warning. You know that. He’s telling you not to be greedy, to be patient while he savours you. But you can’t. Not when every pass of his tongue over your clit makes you feel like you’re burning from the inside out.

Finally, mercifully, he slips a finger inside you, and you whine loudly at the feeling.

“So noisy,” he pulls away to mutter, leaving your clit for a moment as he watches the way his own finger thrusts in and out of you. Soon another finger joins the first, stretching you open as his digits scissor and slide, and your hands grip the sheets beneath you as your heel (from the leg still looped over his shoulder) presses down into his back.

His heeds your encouragement, pressing his mouth back down against your sex as his fingers fuck you open, pants and moans and gasps for breath leaving you in a broken litany. He hums against your clit, his mouth parting and lapping against you eagerly, coaxing more and more sweet sounds from you.

The heat curling in your stomach has grown so tight it threatens to strangle you, every curl of his fingers deep inside you and lap of his tongue threatening to burn you alive.

You call out to him on the edge of a ragged breath, the word falling from your trembling lips over and over, like his name is the only thing you know.

“Cum,” he grunts with his mouth still pressed against your clit, wrist snapping faster as he slams his fingers into you, and that final string that had been fettering you to your sanity breaks.

His tongue doesn’t stop even as your legs begin to quake from overstimulation. You mewl and beg for reprieve, but he refuses, and all too quickly the pain shifts into something pleasant again, the same knot that had just come undone knitting itself whole again in your core, winding tighter and faster than it had the first time.

It’s so different from how you’ve grown used to him touching you: teasing you to the edge but never quite letting you go over until you were incoherent and spent and begging for it. This time when he touches you it’s like his only intention is to break you apart as quickly and as many times as he can.

You’re not quite sure which is better.

You pant hard as you come down from your second high, head hazy and limbs light, reaching out for him blindly. He helps you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pressing your face into his neck and trailing lazy, adoring kisses down his throat.

“Marco,” you whimper into his skin as he pulls you upright into his arms, supporting you as you both sit up in your bed.

“Yeah?” he asks, voice thick with want as you place sloppy kisses along his jaw until you reach his mouth. You lick between his parted lips, tongue sliding hot and wet against his own. The sound is loud and lewd. His mouth still tastes like you.

You pull back, catching his lower lip between your teeth, dragging them back until it slips from within their bite.

He stares down at you, one eye scarred closed and the other heavy-lidded; ensnared by your touch, by the sound of your voice as you call to him.

You peck his mouth again, more chaste this time, before mumbling into his lips.

“Please fuck me.”

He’s quick to indulge you.

You’re too boneless thanks to your earlier orgasms to top, but Marco seems content to pin you down beneath him, pushing your legs up until they’re pressing into your hips and holding you there by your thighs as his hips press down into yours.

The moment he finally sheathes himself inside you, you both gasp in tandem.

“So fucking tight,” he says through clenched teeth, drawing his hips back to thrust forward again shallowly.

You moan at how full you feel. It’s wanton, wailing. You sound like you’re in pain.

Marco pauses for a moment, staring down at you as you writhe beneath him.

“You okay?” he pants, though it seems to pain him to hold himself back, the effort plain on his handsome face. His throbbing cock is still twitching inside you.

“So big,” you rasp out, but your hips jerk forward on instinct, urging him for more.

Marco tuts reproachfully at your avidity, and maybe he's right to do so, because the next roll of his hips is even rougher, forcing a whine from the back of your throat. You revel in the force of Marco steadily slamming into you; your back arching on each thrust, hands scrabbling to find purchase at his shoulders. Your nails bite down into the soft skin eagerly, sure to leave their mark.

Marco’s own hands bear down harder into the meat of your thighs, pushing you firmly into the bed as his fingers dig into the yielding flesh. You’re certain you’ll bruise - that you’ll feel his touch lingering there for days. You revel in the thought, keening at the very notion of feeling his hands on you long after the two of you have parted ways.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, body curving up to catch his lips with yours. The kiss is messy, all teeth and tongue and freneticism, but it makes a heat seep through you all the same. You’re soon gasping against his mouth as a particularly hard thrust has you seeing white, falling back to the bed as he continues fucking you down into it, his fingers finding their way to your clit to help you over the edge again.

You cum quickly, the feeling heightened by the sensation of his cock dragging against your sensitive walls as they tighten around him, and he’s hissing in response.

“Fuck, fuck,” Marco groans, head dropping onto your chest as his thrusts grow frantic. His mouth latches onto one of your nipples, teeth grazing against the sensitive bud, though you’re so thoroughly fucked out and delirious that you hardly feel it.

But somewhere in the back of your addled mind you recognize Marco hasn't cum yet, so you do your best to clench down around him as he chases his release. It's almost too much, the way Marco’s cock is forcing its way into you, threatening to split you in half as his large hands keep your thighs pinned back and open for him. You walk a sharp, dangerous edge of pain and pleasure as he continues to use you, eyes teary as you muster your remaining coherence to stay conscious – at least long enough to see the endeavour through to the end.

You stutter over his name, breathy and pleading, lips trembling as you beg him to cum for you – a sharp contrast to the clear demand he’d made of you earlier.

That’s all it takes, and with a bitten off growl he buries himself as deeply as he can inside your pliant and obliging body. Heat blooms deep in your core and his hips jerk a few times more as he meets his end.

He collapses atop you, the slick, flushed skin of his chest meeting yours as his weight bears down. It’s comforting, albeit a little stifling, but he soon shifts to the side, allowing you a little more room to breathe.

The two of you lay like that for a moment, bodies flush together atop the rumpled sheets of your bed, trying to regulate your erratic breathing as you both come down from your highs. Marco’s forehead is pressed against your shoulder, and you reach up to push his hair back from his rosy face. His eye flutters up to meet yours.

It’s quiet as you watch each other, and if you weren’t so disoriented with satisfaction, you’re certain there would be a million questions running through your mind. But in that moment, with Marco’s breath fanning across your collarbone, the heat of his body radiating into your side, all you feel is content.

You know you should rise, clean yourself up, deal (as best you were able) with the aftermath of Marco finishing inside you. But you can’t for the life of you will your spent body into motion, content to remain basking in the warmth his larger body radiated and the dwindling glow of the three orgasms he’d given you.

“We should get cleaned up,” Marco is the one who finally finds the energy to say what you’re both thinking, sitting up a little in bed beside you. You want to whine from the loss of his body heat, but you force yourself to stay quiet, nodding lightly in agreement.

You have a small wash basin on one side of your room filled with tepid, clean water. You sit up in your bed with every intention of approaching it, but when you try to stand, your unsteady legs are uncooperative – buckling a little under you.

Marco’s hands shoot out from where he’s perched at the edge of your bed, steadying you. You look to him at the unexpected support, and can’t help but smile softly.

“Here, lay down,” he mumbles, urging you back down onto your bed. You comply, watching curiously as he stands and approaches the basin. He takes one of the cloths from the neat stack beside the bowl of water, dipping it in and wringing the water out. He brings it over to you on the bed.

“Thank you,” you say appreciatively, reaching for it when he returns. He doesn’t hand it to you though, and instead he leans in, swiping the cloth gently against your sweat dampened brow. The soft material is cool with the water it’s been saturated with, and it feels nice as it kisses the flushed skin of your face.

You watch, enrapt, as the look on Marco’s face turns contemplative and focused. He runs the cloth over your neck, across your collarbones, before eventually dipping down between your legs. Your heart is in your throat at the intimate, gentle way he cleans you – how he’s careful as he runs the rag over your sensitive skin. A fondness you’d almost forgotten you were able to feel wells fast and ardent, deep within the cavern of your chest.

Once he’s done tending to you, Marco returns to the basin on the other side of your room, retrieving another cloth and making quick work of cleaning himself. Your eyes are heavy with exhaustion as you watch him wipe himself down, far less tenderly than he’d attended to you, and the time between your eyes closing and opening again grows longer with every passing blink. Eventually he tosses both dirtied cloths into your hamper, shuffling over to the end of your bed where his pants hang half-off of your bedpost thanks to the haste in which he’d shed them earlier in the evening.

You watch with a pang of sadness as he begins to redress, knowing that it means he’s preparing to leave. He works quickly and quietly, first pulling on his underwear, and then reaching for the undershirt he wore beneath his button-down. You want to say something, but before you can really think the words through you’re already speaking breathlessly.

“Stay,” you say quietly, terrified for what the unexpected request will bring as a response.

He pauses, undershirt half pulled on. He seems to consider it for a moment, his eye guarded as it traces your features. He nods after a few seconds of contemplation, removing his arms from the sleeves of his top and tossing it to the ground again.

You shuffle back across your mattress, making space as he crawls into bed with you. You feel almost giddy as he lifts the blankets and slides beneath them, covering you up along with him, slotting his body neatly in beside your own.

His long arm reaches to extinguish the lamp at your bedside, settling in for the night.

The two of you lay side by side for a while, almost awkwardly – neither of you quite certain how to traverse this unfamiliar territory. You want to hold him or be held by him, but you fear scaring him off, so you settle for rolling onto your side and pressing your body back against his –an invitation. He understands what you’re asking, and soon his body curls around yours, an arm securing you by your waist as he holds you tightly to his chest. He presses his face into the curve of your neck.

His spot.

“I can hear your heartbeat,” Marco says quietly, sleep heavy in his tone as his legs tangle with yours beneath the blankets. You hum, too tired to form any substantial response.

When you feel his lips curve into a small smile against your skin, your heart feels liable to burst.

You know your time together isn’t limitless. When the morning comes, you’ll have to part ways - and there’s never any guarantee that either of you will make it back to your beds at the end of the day, much less each other’s. Not in a world that’s so rapidly changing, and certainly not with a war looming on the horizon.

But you have this ephemeral moment, together, with him.

Marco.

Who has neither remembered, nor ever truly forgotten you.

Not the Marco that he was, but still yours.

And for now, it is enough.

[cvtqr]

wait could I request either Jean, Connie, or Sasha accidentally walking in on you and Marco either doing the deed or sucking each others faces off... they’d be like “Hey y/n? Have you seen Marco- OH” LMAOO

pairings; marco bodt x f!reader

content warning; smut, caught/walked in on

notes; modern au, aged up marco + GOODBYE MY MARCO CUTOUT WATCHING ME WRITE THIS RN LIKE ... shawty </33

getting marco to really loosen up was a rare occasion. of course, he'd always have a beer in his hands while hanging out with his friends, but really drinking? during the times your friend group explored new bars or clubs, marco was always the one who offered to stay sober, making sure everybody got home safely. 

tonight though, it was sasha’s birthday. pre to her party tomorrow, she took a few friends to a newly opened club, mars. somehow you convinced marco to loosen up a bit, it being one of your close friends birthday. 

you felt bad leaving before all of your friends, pretty early in general... but marco was the one who dragged you back to the apartment. 

the cab ride home, he couldn't keep his hands off of you. kept slipping a hand under your skirt, bringing it a little too close to your clothed heat. 

right when you unlocked the door, you got yourself slammed right into it. not bothering to find your lips, marco’s mouth traveled down your jawline and neck, sucking deep into the soft skin. grabbing your hair, he pulled your head back, giving him more access. 

“marco-”

the way his name rolled so smoothly off your tongue made the blood flow straight to his dick. 

turning the hallway, he dragged you into the living area of the apartment. he just gets so excited sometimes, he couldn't even be bothered to take you into the bedroom.

pushing you into the dim lighted area. he flipped you around and bent you over the small breakfast nook table that was placed in the corner of the room. 

“ ‘m sorry, y/n. i promise ill take care of you after this... just need you now.”

unbuckling his pants, he pulled them down just enough to free his rock hard cock. lifting up your skirt, he pulled your panties to the side before dragging one of his long, slender fingers, across your slit. lining himself up with your cunt, he slowly pushed himself into you. 

you always felt a burn when he first pushes himself in, but its quickly replaced with pleasure as he started thrusting in and out of you.

dragging himself almost all the way out, he harshly slammed himself right back into you. it was so overwhelming, your mouth just hung open, nothing coming out. 

holding your head down onto the table, marco leaned his figure down resting on top of yours. the way he started to roughen and speed up his thrusts, let the load moan you've been holding in escape through your lips.

“quiet down, y/n” his hand came across your mouth, slipping two fingers through your lips. 

the disgusting sounds of lewd slapping of skin filled the entire living room. too distracted from pleasure, neither of you heard the front door open and close.

“y/n? marco? you guys home?”

jeans voice echoed through the kitchen of your apartment, before footsteps slowly started heading down the hallway.

“you both left without saying anything we were worried si-” 

connie cut himself off mid sentence as him and jean turned the corner into the living room. stopped in their tracks, they both looked like deer in the headlights. 

marco didn't stop though. no. if anything he just got faster. turning your head to face them both, they felt their breath hitch at the sight in front of them.

your hair a mess, eyelids heavy, marcos fingers hanging out of your mouth... covered in your drool.

not saying a thing, the two of them turned back into the kitchen, and out the front door once more.

they needed a walk maybe.

maybe a walk to sasha and niccolo’s apartment, to spend the night there.

[yuyuswrld]

O Captain, My Captain || 1

series intro here, or read chapter 2

characters: reiner x reader (this chapter), various aot boys x reader.

notes: this is an 18+ series, please don’t interact if you’re a minor! reader is referred to with she/they pronouns.

content warnings: explicit smut, fingering, reiner eating pussy like a god!!, alcohol consumption, degradation, mild slut shaming (?), mentions of marijuana at the end

“Has he always been a bitch?” You question Marco, inhaling bites of your ramen. He shrugs, “We’ve both been on the team since freshman year and I’ve never had a problem with him. Maybe you’re the problem?” He meets with dead silence as you stare up at him from your bowl.

“Funny, Bott. I’m just not looking forward to spending so much time with him, if he behaves like that, anyway.” Exasperation visible, you slump in your chair to think. “It’s not like he’s on the sidelines. He’s the damn captain, which means I have to talk to him a lot.”

Marco shrugs. “You’re being dramatic. He’s a pain sometimes, but he’s not that bad. Just try to be nice to him, please. Eren won’t get any nicer if you’re mean. Plus,” He stops to take a bite of his food, “we don’t have the time for fighting. We’re expected to go to nationals this year, and that’s not happening if you two scare each other off.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Bott. I’ll see you at practice later.” Uncrossing your arms and brushing off your legs as you get up from your seat. Okay, sure, Eren has yet to be anything except slightly dismissive and maybe just a little shit. He hasn’t actually done anything to you. You toss your bag over your shoulder before thanking Marco for the meal and dismissing yourself.

As the time for practice draws closer, you collect your thoughts as you stand outside the cold metal doors of the university’s second largest gym. Sure, you went to a school notorious for its D-1 volleyball, but the gym’s size was excessive. The high rise bleachers felt as if they would swallow you alive and the walls would collapse in. They had before. You remember the bile pool in your throat as the sports cameras flashes ate at your failure and spat you back out. Like a gazelle running from its predator, your body craves to run away from the glorified arena ahead of you.

“The fuck are you standing in the doorway for? Are you going in, or what?” Is it wrong to want to choose violence? Couldn’t he just say excuse me or ask if something’s wrong like a normal person?

Ugh, you should choose peace and not mess up a good opportunity. Just think about the money and all the nice things you can buy.

“I’m obviously just trying to get in your way.” You push the door open and walk into the gymnasium, not bothering with holding it open for Eren. In fact– hopefully it hits him! 

You hear the door fly open again behind you and a bag hits the ground with a loud thud. Eyes landing on the congregation of men in jerseys surrounding a smaller man, you beeline over to them. As you near, the smaller man, who you assume to be Coach Levi, locks his gaze with you. Is he… angry? Concerned? It’s impossible to determine what he’s thinking as he continues to stare.

“You’re not pregnant, are you?”

Your jaw drops. You’ve met more people in your life than you can count and never did a single person start a conversation in such a way.

“Not as far as I’m aware of…?”

“Okay, if you do what Hanna did, I will rip that baby out of your-”

A blond kid speaks up, “Um, Coach, you probably shouldn’t be threatening them on the first day. I just don’t think it’s a good idea to do that when we really need someone to organize our itinerary and keep practice stats. We’re nothing if we don’t have those numbers.”

“Fine, Arlelt. You and Braun stay here, explain how game statistics work and start having her do one-on-ones after. Performance evaluations for all of you.” You watch as Coach Levi’s eyes hover over Eren, who looks less than pleased. You’re not sure what’s going on there, but also can’t bring yourself to care. “Rest of you can go practice.”

As you glance over at the two boys who stayed, it throws you off that you’ve seen both of them before. The little blond one, you’re pretty sure his name is Armin. You’ve seen him walking around with Eren before, but he always looked so out of place in how gentle he is. You’re pretty sure you watched him bump into a trash can and apologize.

The other, however, you don’t think you’ve ever seen a man with such a commanding presence. He’s well-built. You’re pretty sure even a Greek god couldn’t hold up in comparison. You scoff internally, ‘it’s always the fucking volleyball players.’ But there’s something that lingers on your tongue, a conversation revolving around him. Then it hits you, Petra’s gossipped about him before!

“There are some really cute guys on our volleyball team. Did you know that?”

“Not this again, Petra. We’re supposed to be doing our biology homework.”

“Bitch, please. Let me speak. Anyway, there’s this guy on the team, his name is Reiner and oh my god- that is one fine ass man. He’s built like a tank engine. Not only that,” she says, a little giggle follows. “I’ve only heard this from two girls. He says he doesn’t like to hook up a lot, but his head game is insane. Like cum in a minute insane.” 

You stare, “I’m pretty sure that’s impossible, Petra.”

“I don’t know! Hook up with him yourself and you can give me all the juicy details afterwards.” You can only sigh in response, disturbed by your best friend’s inability to study.

But, here he was in the flesh, all 6’2 farmers tan of him. You couldn’t possibly do something so scandalous on your first day, could you? You shake the thought out of your mind as Armin talks.

“Volleyball stats are relatively easy to get the hang of. You just need to watch pretty closely. Even if you do miss something, we record them and you’ll go back through with Eren to make sure everything is recorded properly. Then, you’ll want to convert the numbers of each hit, serve, and pass into percentages compared to how many times it occurred per set.”

Reiner laughs, just a small one, but lord it’s like music to your ears. “Armin, you’re dumping too much info on them at once. It’d probably just be best to just show them the ropes visually and they can go from there. C’mon, let’s have coach set up the camera and record the three-on-three’s that they’re doing now.  We’ll watch the game, I’ll have you watch me record it, and then we’ll go back over it while watching the tape later.”

You nod, feeling just a hint of warmth across your face. Is this even possible, to have a school-girl crush in university? Those days were supposed to be behind you, but you can’t help but have the smallest bit of a smile as you follow him and Armin to speak with Coach Levi.

As you watch Reiner and Armin record the stats, your mind spins with utter confusion. You’re beyond lost, unsure how they’re even keeping up with the sheer amount of movement the players are doing. Dig? Write it down. Set? Write it down. You want to groan, or maybe even just go get dinner as you feel your stomach rumble.

As practice wraps up, your stomach rumbles in pain once again as it craves its next coddling. Reiner glances over from where you two stand, finishing up showing Coach Levi the statistics and getting a dismissive, “make sure it’s right,” instead of an appreciative response. He smiles at you, looking down.

“Gettin’ hungry?” He asks.

“Beyond hungry,” you say, shoulders dropping in defeat. “I’m being tortured. I haven’t eaten since noon. It’s 7 now! It’s criminal that you guys would starve me for so long.” You tease Reiner. He only responds by glancing at the gym door where most of the boys say their goodbyes before tapping out for the night.

“Y’know, I’ve heard I make a mean rice bowl.” 

It didn’t take much convincing for you to follow him back to his dorm room as practice winds down. Upon sitting across from each other at his make-shift dinner table, you learn Reiner is one of the middle blockers, coming at no surprise to you when taking in consideration to his stature. Although, you also learn he was from the countryside and this scholarship was his way out.

“Y’know, I always kinda dreamt of moving to the big city and being able to do what I love. But it’s crazy, man, I still can’t believe I’m here sometimes playing for the top university on the island.” 

Hearing the passion in his voice, you question if it’s right for you to intrude as a manager. Is it okay for you to be in charge of the livelihood of the men who’ve come so far and done so much for their passion? The men who could very well play on Paradis’ Olympic Team in the future? The concern is quickly shoved into your mental locker to be returned to as Reiner asks about watching a movie over some post-dinner snacks and beer. A much needed chance to relax after endless studying, you agree chipperly and move over to his plush couch.

As you two get halfway through Inglourious Basterds, you feel his arm wrap around you and his head turn in your direction. The alcohol running through your system has you heating up just from the skin contact. You blush as Petra’s words return to the forefront of your mind. You turn your head to face him, eyes interlocking with each other. His eyes signal a look of need, not want. You’re not sure if anyone’s ever looked at you like that before. Like a hunter who’ll starve without the meat of the deer he’s trailing.

“You’re so fucking hot” He mutters, you’re surprised a man of his stature can be so quiet. “I don’t think I’ll last with you as our manager.” Reiner closes the gap between the two of you. There’s a slight metallic tinge on his lips, but it’s addicting in the worst of ways and only deepens the experience. You two continue, allowing yourselves to sink into the couch, your body hitting the arm rest. His kiss moves from your lips to your neck, hands beginning to roam until they find purchase underneath your shirt. First, he plays with your bra before making his way under. Reiner moves his lips from your neck gently, almost like he’s scared of making a mistake. He helps you pull your shirt over your head and follows by removing your bra, his delicate touch unhooking the backing.

“You don’t have to be gentle,” you coo to him, lust-filled gazes connecting. “Please, I like it a bit rough, I swear.” He groans into the valley of your breasts.

“Don’t say that shit, I might break you.”

You can only laugh at his words, unfazed by the prospect, if not even more turned on by it. 

“Holy shit, please do,”

“In that case,” He says, voice lower as if weighing his options internally. “Don’t blame me if you limp to practice tomorrow.” Reiner helps you remove your pants before his fingers begin to dance over your body again. The touches are soft as they ghost the outline of your skin, your heart beating as you wait for him to soothe the ache between your legs. You attempt to rub them together for a semblance of friction but his arms find their way to keep them split. His gaze shifts up to you, eyes narrow as if disapproving of your behavior. Reiner’s face then begins to move lower, tongue licking a stripe up the inside of your thigh as his fingers begin to dance over your clit. He moves his face over to meet his fingers, tongue flattening against your clit, which draws a moan of approval from you. It seems evident that it spurs him on further as he begins to speed up his tongue, then switching to sucking your bud and having his fingers delve lower to your hole. Reiner holds eye contact with you as he begins to press one of his monstrous fingers inside of you. 

You can only make a noise of approval as he pushes it further in, approving of how well even one of them feels inside. It heightens your pleasure as he thrusts it forward, keeping his tongue dancing and sucking against your clit in a flurry of movements that have you questioning if Reiner is really a man and not a god in disguise. As he pushes a second large finger in, you cry out much louder than you should be in the dorms. You bite down on your lip to withhold any further noises, but Reiner puts a complete pause on what he’s doing.

“Keep moaning, baby. Let them hear how well you’re getting finger-fucked right now. This is what Armin wanted to be doing to you right now, did you know that?” He lets out a deep laugh, lips and face glistening in the dim lighting of his tv. “Bet you’d like that, though, huh?” His fingers move again and you gasp. “Yeah, you’d fucking love it if I bent you over and fingered you from behind to show off the entire team what a good little pocket pussy you are.”

That’s what tipped you over the edge. In fact, it’s probably disrespectful to feminism that you allow yourself to be finger-fucked while getting off to the disgusting words spewing out of the blond’s mouth. But social constructs be damned if this man didn’t stick his dick in you soon. You clench around his fingers as they continue to move, despite your cum gushing over his fingers.

“You’re fuckin’ nasty. But you’re still not ready for me.”

His face returns to its original spot, blowing hot air on it first as you wriggle at the stimulation. Reiner only adds another finger in response, allowing the three large digits to stretch you out before moving them once again. It feels as if you’re melting around his fingers as your back arches to the stretch. Despite slight discomfort, it’s overwhelmingly pleasurable to feel the expertise in his ways.

It’s not long after he adds another finger that you feel the coil in your stomach once again. As his tongue laps at your clit with a technique unknown to you, you’re about to unravel against his touch once again.

“‘M gonna cum,” you pant out desperately.

“Do it, cum on my fuckin’ tongue.” He replies approvingly, allowing you to take the time you need to ride out the rush to your body. For a second, you feel as if you’re floating in the way your back arches off the couch and your head spins in pure ecstasy. You glance over at Reiner, eyes fixated, as he removes his pants and reveals the thing you’ve been so curious to see. It matches his stature in almost every way, which makes you cringe at the thought of him fitting it in.

“You said you like it rough?” It’s a trap, that much you’re sure of. You glance back down to examine how large he is before you reconfirm, but before you know it, the condom has slipped on and he’s making his way back to you. He asserts his way on top, arms on either side of your head as he leans in to give you a quick kiss. It catches you a bit off guard, the earlier metallic taste has changed into the taste of your own cum and there’s a slight wince as you taste it. You can’t tell if this man is slightly depraved or hot as hell.

“I asked you a question. It’s not nice to ignore me.” 

A loud smack to your clit resounds as you let out a sharp, pleasure-filled gasp. 

“Yes, please,” you whine. It’s slightly pathetic, how you’re behaving for this man, but god be damned if anything were to impede your moment. 

He only grunts in response, lining himself up with your entrance. As he sinks in, you bite your lip to fight the stretch. You attempt to lie back and relax in his touch to allow him in, but he’s just so large. Reiner bottoms out, tip just ghosting against your cervix. He only grants you a few moments to adjust to his size before he’s pounding into you, your cries of pleasure nothing but music to his ears. The tip kissing your cervix is making your brain fuzz beyond anything you’ve felt before, and your walls hug him in intoxicating ways. Reiner grips both of your legs, bringing them onto his shoulders to push in further which earns you a grunt of approval from the larger man. 

He fucks you like he hates you. Every so often, his head falls back, and he lets out grunts of pleasure. His body moves like an artist painting their long-lost lover from only a distant memory, hips ferocious in their assault of your cunt. Reiner flips you over onto your hands and knees after an indiscernible amount of time, your sweat-covered body cringing at the chilly breeze it causes. His pace is still unrelenting from the back, cock feeling as if it’s touching every inch it can inside of you.

“Holy shit,” He cries out. “I’m gonna cum. I wish I could cum inside this pretty little pussy of yours.”

Without another word, except for your moan of approval, Reiner finishes and delicately slides out of you, removing the condom and disposing of it. He arrives back a couple minutes later, towel in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

“So, round two?”

“I’m pretty sure you started my period just now.”

[lue-arlert]

Summary: Your family is life-long servants to the noble Bott family—a servitude full of respect and friendship. But, with this, comes rules and boundaries that you must abide by. One of them, being nothing more than friendship. So when you and the eldest son Marco realize you love each other while he’s in the process of being married off to an even wealthier family, you try to find a way to be together. Though hardships come with secrets, you’re bound and determined to find a way to make things work and convince your families—though different races and classes—that love should come before all else.

ongoing

Chapter 1 - Violet Blue - 5/1/22

[bruhstories]

Hi sweetie! I'm so sorry for you job :(

Let me help you get your mind off of things!

Soft doms Marco and Jean that know how to be mean.

The reader is in a poly relationship with them, she had a pretty shitty week and they keep her grounded 👀👀👀

hii, babe! don't worry about the job thing, it'll work out eventually <3 and ughhh, marco and jean? sign me the fuck up!

pairing: jean kirschtein x fem!reader x marco bott word count: ~ 1k warnings and content: softdom!marco, softdom!jean, threesome, unprotected sex (vaginal and anal), slight degradation kink, fluff a/n: not a fic per se, just some dirty thoughts

One bad day, that's all it takes for you to snap. You already had a pretty bad week, but this day just takes the cake. First, someone bumped into you on your way to work and you dropped your phone. The screen cracked. Then, you missed your bus. Great. Then, you got to work and they told you you'd be laid off, and you should pack your things. You wonder if things can get any worse than that.

They can — rain pours from the once clear sky, drenching you, and you already feel yourself catching a cold. You miss the bus again, and tear your dress in a broken fence on your way home. Unbelievable. Once you enter the house, you check that no one's there. Jean and Marco are at work, and that's a relief. Since your phone screen is cracked, you can't use it properly, so you decide to take a bath and relax, and once you soak yourself in the hot water, all the worries seem to disappear, at least temporarily. But you remember that you should probably start looking for a job. Both Marco and Jean earned enough to support all three of you, but you don't want to stay home and be a trophy girlfriend, you want to do something meaningful.

You get out of the tub and bury yourself under the soft blankets, slowly falling asleep. It's a restless sleep, you tossed and turned and woke up sneezing. You definitely caught a cold. And then you feel it — the heavy, overwhelming anxiety. You can't breathe, can't think, you feel your toes curling and muscles tensing and you cry. You let it all out and cry, hyperventilating and screaming in the pillow and you don't even notice the noise coming from outside the bedroom.

The pillow didn't help muffle your shouting, and Jean and Marco barge into the room, completely scared for your life, all the worst possible scenarios going through their minds. They didn't even take their shoes off.

You tell them what happened between hiccups and sobs, and they pull you into the warmest hug. Their beating hearts pound against their chests, and your cheeks flush with heat because how can you even think about sex after such a horrible day? But you do, and you really need them to make you feel appreciated and loved.

Between tears and snot, you chew on your lower lip and they instantly know that look on your face. "Please," you beg them, "I need you."

"Which one?" They tease and you feel your forehead burn. It could be the fever, it could be the lust. Hell, it could be both at this point.

"Both of you, I need to feel good enough!" You practically scream.

Marco, always a sweetheart, gently pats your head, fingers brushing through your hair. "Y/N, you know you're always good enough. You always give your best and we love you."

But you need them to show you that they love you, and when you pout, Jean almost laughs. "Marco, you still didn't get used to Y/N's love language? It's very... physical."

When he says that, Marco's face lights up as if he had the world's most brilliant epiphany. Just to test the waters, he ghosts his fingers over your thigh and, just like a cat, you arch your back in response, almostashamed of yourself.

"Is that so? You want us to take good care of you?" Marco's voice changes, from sweet and caring to low, guttural even. You feel another hand on you — Jean, not as gentle as his boyfriend, grabs you by the nape, pulling you into a kiss. You can already feel your problems melting away with each touch.

They quickly undress, not wanting to ignore their precious girlfriend for too long, and you soon find yourself between the two of them, with Marco behind you and Jean in front of you. Their kisses vary from rough to gentle, from innocent to sinful. It's the only way you want it.

It doesn't take long for them to prep you, and within minutes of foreplay they fuck your brains out. Jean, bigger and thicker than Marco, has his cock buried deep inside your needy cunt, and a hand around your throat. "Look at you." He says between grunts, "Do you think good girls come to their boyfriends to fuck them after a bad day?" You can only shake your head, the lack of air making you unable to utter a word. "That's right, they don't. But you? You're a filthy little slut."

Marco, not as thick as Jean but just as long, takes you from behind, fucking your tightest ring. You swore never to do anal before you met these two, and now you take it wherever they want. Marco doesn't like degrading you, although he knows how much you like it, yet he knows exactly how to handle you, and sometimes his touches win over Jean's words.

When you come, it's music to their ears. The sounds coming out of you are angelic, yet devilish, and that is enough to help them reach their climax. All three of you collapse on the bed, and despite being completely tired, they still clean you up and bring you clean clothes. You feel bad, after all you're unemployed and should do more around the house but they urge you to rest.

"How about some ramen?" Marco asks, as if reading your mind. You eagerly nod, eyes wide and bright. "And get her that sushi platter she loves." Jean tucks a lock of hair behind your ear and you feel like crying again. They were such good men, and you were somehow lucky enough to have both of them. And that alone makes you good enough.

[seychellse]

The Lazarus project

this was meant to be my Halloween piece but as usual I am late. it's still technically spooky season until the end of the 2nd but I had to change all mentions of the 31st so I wouldn't embarrass myself :-((

warnings: not sfw! magic & necromancy, mentions of stitches, mentions of blood, homeopathy, monsterfucking (?????? he's dead. he's a corpse. but he is alive - sort of - and capable of speech and complex thought. decide for yourself whether that counts or not)

pairing: Marco Bott x fem!reader

wc: 4.1k

All Hallow’s season. The short period of the year where spirits ran loose, and the world between the living and the dead thinned long enough for either side to reach out to the other. Night swept over the afternoon sky almost as soon as schooldays came to an end – many children were already out gathering their treats, painted faces and linen wrappings aplenty as they went door-to-door panhandling, gleefully breaking the golden rule of never accepting candies from strangers.

Others were less interested in the physical aspects of spooky season, leaning heavily into the darker aspects of the holiday. Irreverent, careless teens coming together to sequester themselves away in attics or basements with the lights out and a selection of dollar-store candles surrounding them, enticing the denizens of the metaphysical world to bless them, commune with the dead or just provide a good scare.

You scoffed. Amateurs. The only thing they were good for were asking inane questions about your various herbs and spices and spending insane amounts of dough on anything you could pitch as vaguely homeopathic or occult-touched. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Magic wasn’t something that could simply be bought – but of course few were serious enough about the craft to care about that.

All those idiots wasting their money for cheap thrills with no actual output – children casting two-line spells on their teddy bears for fun had more power than the casuists who attempted to meddle with forces they didn’t understand. Ouija and divining boards were a crock of shit in the wrong hands; more so for those who had no prior links to the spirit world or anchors to guide them there.

But that was none of your business. You smirked; smugness overtaking you as you sipped your cinnamon-spiced tea in preparation for your own ritual. The smooth taste cancelled out the earlier bitter flavour of the maca root you had chewed earlier, absorbing into your bloodstream easily and mingling with your innate magical capability – but the wave of nausea that followed forced you to take deep breaths, your brow furrowing as you popped a spring of motherwort into your mouth to ease it and prepared a second tincture you hoped would have a better flavour profile once administered. You didn’t dare to upset the careful herbal balance required for your spell, and besides, you would be in for a lot worse later if your spell succeeded. Best to get it over with now.

A ritual in three parts – and as with all first steps, the most difficult. The following ones would be easier. Checking everything was in place, you rubbed your vial necklace and murmured a simple blessing. Now or never. You abandoned the empty mug, steeled your twisting stomach, and moved to your storage room, where in the middle laid a body, still as a statue and dead to the world.

You didn’t need fancy accoutrements or so-called spiritualist aids to perform your rites, having the most important things none of the young upstarts disturbing your peace and causing a ruckus earlier in the day could ever hope to have; an affinity to the natural world, a tether in both planes and most importantly: actual intent to see your work through.

Your gaze softened as you knelt beside the cadaver, lovingly cleaned and magically preserved for so many years. Slightly uneven stitches littered a strong torso, travelling upwards across his right arm all the way to a handsome face. You cringed at an unfinished final stitch partially hidden by dark bangs, searing away the loose thread and berating yourself for the incomplete job. Magic tended to get a little… wonky when applied to the dead, so most of your internal work had to be done by hand, but that only meant small details often went overlooked. That wouldn’t do – everything had to be perfect. Despite your oversight, the body was nonetheless in fantastic condition – much better than would be expected of a nine-year-old corpse.

Without blood, the skin was hardened, cool and pallid, but it brought you no end of joy noticing that the greyish tone regular cadavers suffered from at least hadn’t blighted yours. The smell of dried flowers and carefully-tied ginkgo and goatweed bundles sewn into your project’s mouth and abdomen did a lot of heavy lifting to mask the lingering scent of decay, but the small deposits of grave wax behind the ears and knees served as a reminder that all your toils weren’t yet over. The vast majority of each year went into preparing this body for your ritual, and you performed your duties with the utmost care, a labour of love in the truest sense – but you needed to work a little faster. The clock you raced against ticked slowly, but even you could only prolong the inevitable for so long.

He’s been getting stronger, you mused, and so have I. This will work, I know it will.

Sweeping your hands over the sutured figure, you allowed a miniscule amount of magic to flow from your palms into the cold flesh beneath it. The room was quiet, and your expression was concentrated as small, translucent tendrils rose from the ground and encased the body. Satisfied with the progress, you pulled back your hands to reach for your ceremonial knife, digging it into your fingertips and tapping the head, chest and groin in rapid succession. From there, your smeared blood did the rest, absorbed and spread into cells that pulsed with pseudo-life.

“I open the channel between worlds, for the soul I seek. Spirit who once owned this body, rise true from the cool ocean of death and return to your mortal form. I make my plea, and I will serve as your guide. Follow my voice; follow my voice, follow my voice.” Even after so many years of repeated use, the spell still felt so clunky in your mouth, stoppering your jaw like a too-large chunk of food you could neither swallow nor spit out. Still, you persisted, repeating your mantra twice more and tapping the blood-smeared organs once more with extra vigour, pleased as the liquid smears dissolved and added a dash of pink to a previously bloodless frame.

A whisper so quiet it almost went unheard lodged itself in your skull, an arcane promise that you grasped and repeated, three times in response.

I shall, I shall, I shall.

The call from beyond, answered by the one you sought. Your vision blurred as an unnatural wind started to swirl around you, lifting the corners of your dress and ruffling the layers of your hair. The pendant around your neck began to shimmer, blocking out any malicious shades attracted to your call and paving an ethereal path for the one whose presence you desired. Focusing all your power on truesight, your eyelids fluttered shut and remained so until the gentle light emanating from your necklace grew in size and pierced your darkened vision.

An exaggerated yawn, swallowing sound and sounds of movement titled your lips upwards just the slightest amount, but you kept your eyes firmly shut until the brightness dimmed and the preternatural wind died back down.

“Hello, love.”

The smile on your face broadened, threatening to overtake your features entirely as you finally laid eyes on the corporeal form of your late lover, already upright and shaking off the stiffness in his joints as he acclimated to his old body and experienced the drawbacks of it having fallen to disuse for an entire year. The gossamer threads that previously surrounded his body had fallen away, deteriorating into faint glimmers of light and dust and highlighting the features you loved so dearly.

In the flesh, he was as beautiful as he had ever been, save for the supernatural paleness and the spidery lines of your inexpert suturing marring his freckled face. He didn’t seem bothered or pained by the seams holding him together, a good sign that made your heart leap with hope. Instead, Marco simply admired the open-chested cotton shirt and loose pants you had dressed him in for the occasion. He looked like your own little Frankenstein’s monster sans all the nuts and bolts, perfect for the season if any nosy busybody were to peek in on your joyful reunion and start asking difficult questions.

“Took you long enough. Get lost on the way here?”

His eyes sparkled and he brushed down his attire, leaning in closely enough for his nose to bump into yours. “As if. I was having a lovely rest before you yanked me back into my body, actually. It happened so fast, too – how’d you do it this time?”

You gave him a little butterfly kiss, absorbing the scent of fresh rainwater and damp earth that always seemed to accompany him; the familiarity of decay that you had come to associate with the man you loved so deeply. “Accidental shipment of monarda didyma for the apothecary. It’ll be annoying to be out of mandrake for a week, but it’s so worth it. You didn’t even need my help to move around this time.”

“Yeah. My body feels… different, this year. Stronger.”

Music to your ears. Getting used to a physical form, even one previously inhabited by the soul, was a gruelling process that tended to get harder the longer time was spent outside one. Your grin couldn’t have grown any wider as he stretched out again, the pop of joints cracking cutting through the little stockroom’s relative silence. You marvelled at his lean form and easy confidence, so familiar and yet so foreign at the same time.

“That’ll be my blood’s doing. I amplified it with a potion, but it won’t last on its own.” The squirrelled away tincture was brought out and you pressed it into his hands expectantly. “Drink this, quickly.”

He followed your instruction and swallowed the contents of the phial in three gulps, as obedient in undeath as he had been in life. Counting down from a hundred, you watched keenly as Marco’s limbs flexed, your offered blood marking its way across a network of empty veins and sparking a minimal amount of colour into blanched skin, the transfusion working quicker than expected.

A breath you hadn’t realised you were holding escaped as your internal count reached zero, the herb mixtures tingling unpleasantly in your stomach once more as you drew closer and felt the mana in your blood vessels call out to its brethren.

“That was pretty good. What was in it?”

“Just some common herbs to increase your potency.” The proportioned mix served as a conduit for strengthening his failing body and keeping his soul contained until you released your incantation and spoke the words that would set him free for another year. Even for a practitioner of your calibre, you knew better than to mess with the forces controlling the unseen world more than was necessary. You knew you only had a few hours with him at best, and you were anxious to make them count.

Not wanting to wait any longer, you leaned in to kiss him, unsubtly pressing your body to his and grinding down as you did so. The taste of ginseng and basil lingered on Marco’s tongue; you would have licked your lips if your own organ wasn’t tangled with his. He moaned appreciatively, pulling you down underneath him and pulling apart the tied ribbons on your specially-chosen robes to reveal your bare body underneath.

“No underwear? Is this Halloween or Christmas?” He teased, flicking a nipple and admiring the way it budded under his touch.

“Shut up,” you mumbled, propping yourself up on your elbows to kiss him again and melt into his chilling grasp, the vestments falling from you as you did so, “didn’t want to waste time getting undressed. We don’t have any time to waste; my blood won’t keep you mobile forever.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining! Makes it easier for both of us.” Marco’s hands ran up and down your sides, indulgent even as he gripped your plush thighs and brought your lower half up to his mouth, whistling in appreciation at your waiting, dripping entrance. “God, I missed this.” The shock of his fingers’ lack of warmth made you gasp as they trailed across your labia and massaged the lips gently, before pushing inside impatiently.

His tongue soon joined the mix, surprisingly warm as it followed the same patterns his fingers had left imprints on and moved upwards to swirl around your clit as his fingers stroked you with rhythmic intent. Your hips bucked as his fingers curled, moaning shamelessly into the empty night as his mouth closed entirely around your nub and he picked up the pace at your encouragement.

The storage cupboard where you held your herbs and spices may not have been the most romantic of places to copulate with your long-dead lover, but you couldn’t care less as you melted under Marco’s assault and feverish tongue. You cherished these nights for being able to feel more than the ghostly touch of your lover, to reach an orgasm not prompted by your own hand, to give pleasure just as you received it. But you needed more.

You pushed Marco away, breathing heavily as his fingers withdrew and he looked up at you in surprise. His lips shone with your juices, and you pulled yourself up slightly to taste yourself on him with darkened eyes. His eyes widened, but he let you do as you pleased as you felt his hardened length drag along your thigh.

“You alright?” Marco didn’t need to breathe, but thanks to your blood, his body imitated your own mannerisms and reacted to your shuddering body of its own accord. The room had heated significantly, and you felt your back sweat as you tried to regain your senses.

“Fine. I’m fine, I just– this is the furthest we’ve ever gotten before. Wanna feel you inside me.”

Try as you might, you’d never been able to constrain Marco’s soul within his corpse for long enough to do anything more than mutual masturbation, but boosted by power-enhancing herbs and blood magic, you were determined to finally overcome that hurdle. He didn’t argue; escaping from your ironclad clasp to shed his own clothes and kneel between your legs. He kissed you, needier this time, and curled around you, lining his cock up to your entrance with a flourish, eyes widening at the wetness that already coated his tip. Without a moment’s hesitation, he slid in easily, hissing at your tight warmth and pulsating walls, and dropped down on top of you like he couldn’t get enough of your proximity. You couldn’t blame him – you were the same.

“Feels good,” he grunted, voice like bass against your throat, “feels so good.”

His hips snapped up into yours, a hand slithering down your belly to flick at your clit, and all you could feel was him, thrusting in and out and vibrating against you with an assortment of deep sounds and pants. Marco’s face contorted in concentration, his flared nostrils and reddened cheeks a perfect imitation of life above you. If you pretended hard enough, you could almost convince yourself that you were two lovers just going about your business as usual, rather than a practitioner employing necromantic tactics to fuck your dead boyfriend in his long-dead corpse. Your hands came to cup his face in wonderment and love, eyes watering even as your legs lifted to wrap around his waist and pull him impossibly close. It didn’t matter, it didn’t matter, it didn’t matter. You would have him back, soon enough. You would.

“Need you, need to feel you. Please, Marco.”

His thrusts increased in speed. “Don’t have to tell me twice, love. This is the only time in the year where I get to have you the way I want you. I won’t waste this opportunity.”

If you didn’t have dozens of protective spells placed around your store, you might have wondered if a demon had possessed your lover’s body and not Marco himself. His eyes glazed over as he focused on rutting you, one hand searing into your hip to keep you fixed in place as he pounded you over and over again. Your robe dangled underneath you as a makeshift blanket, protecting you from the worst of the uneven wood floors, but your back rubbed deliciously against polished grooves nonetheless and made you delirious with pleasure as you let Marco have his way with you the way he was only sanctioned to do once a year.

Your throat was dry as you croaked out your final request. “Marco… I’m gonna- wanna—”

“Me too. Fuck!”

Nothing more needed to be said. Angling you upwards, his thumb pressed down hard on your clit as you shook and came apart on his dick, whining and whimpering with your forehead pressed to his. It was enough, more than enough. Marco kept rolling his hips into yours to drag out your orgasm, until the pressure became too much for him and he shuddered, coming with a cry and a final thrust, before spilling into you and collapsing into your shaky arms. He didn’t pull out until he was fully spent, the sticky mixture of your fluids coating the both of you as you laid on the ground and caught your breath. You noted with exhilaration that he was warm to the touch, but whether it was from his exertions or from the magic getting to work in his body, you couldn’t tell.

Either way, you didn’t let go of him, even as he sat you upright and redressed you, and you wished this moment could last forever.

But all good things came to an end eventually, and the euphoria faded as you prepared the sealing spell as the final part of your ritual. You steeled yourself, but the words on your lips disintegrated the moment you looked up into the honey brown eyes you so rarely got to enjoy. Eyes crystallising, you bit your lip and whispered your final plea.

“I bless the soul I brought forth and release him from the mortal coil, back to eternal rest. May the spirits guide him home.”

This was the worst part; feeling the residual warmth, artificial as it was, drain from your lover’s body as it reverted to its lifeless state. You squeezed your eyes shut as a minute passed, and then another, the weight around you never dissipating, the magic in the air remaining undisturbed. You’d petitioned the spirit guides to carry Marco’s soul safely back to the astral planes, but his body still held yours, not the other way around. Maybe you’d finally done it right, this time.

Sensing your relief, Marco pressed an affectionate kiss to your temple, shuffling in closer as your arms swept in and wrapped around his neck. His scarred arm patted yours, the motions more fluid than expected but still not quite human.

“Guess the powers that be decided to give us a little extra time for pillow talk.”

You blinked back tears. “Thank goodness for that. I missed you so much. I always do.”

He laughed a little, stroking your hair with all the tenderness of a long-lost lover doomed to ghostly caresses and endless amounts of longing. “It’s only been a year.”

“A year without you! We get a little more time together each time, but it’s just never enough.” You sighed, lower lip trembling as you clutched him tighter.

His petting never stopped, providing a much-needed source of comfort that you couldn’t get enough of. “Have some faith in yourself; everything feels different. That’s got to be a good sign, right?”

In a way, he wasn’t wrong – everything was different. He wasn’t exactly normal; his skin a little too cool, a little too pale. The medical-grade sutures detailing half his body could be explained away, but the ever-present and sickly smell of rot despite your dutiful applications of oils and perfumes or his entirely bloodless nature, less so.

But none of that mattered; you were already leagues ahead of your previous attempts to bring him back. Up until your sixth attempt at communication, you hadn’t even been able to touch him, much less bring him to a state of quasi-life where you could spend an actual night in his arms.

Marco may not have been living, but he was here, present and tangible, and that made everything else insignificant in comparison.

You’d waited all these years trying to bring him back; what was one more, once you had a proper lifetime within your grasp? Swallowing down the pit of anxiety in your belly and simply passing it off as the maca root making its way out of your system, you laid down beside your phantasmal lover and held him tight, terrified that if you let him go even for a moment, he would retreat back into incorporeality and become out of reach until the next autumn festival. You had to have faith – you’d played your part, and now it was up to Nature to do the rest.

Seemed like your calls had been answered when you woke up the next morning dwarfed by a still-warm body enveloping your own. Blinking in drowsy confusion, your senses must have temporarily failed you as your disbelieving eyes scanned a face free of the jagged black threads so glaringly present only some few hours before. Without the ugly stitches in the way, before you was Marco’s beautiful, unblemished visage – his freckles ever prominent across his nose and cheeks, redder than you remembered. Soft exhalations left his mouth, still wrapped up in the binds of sleep and blissfully aware of your functional meltdown at your newfound discovery. His somnolent state barely registered in your mind, only that he was still here in your world, and more importantly – that he was breathing. Even only half-awake, there was no way you could be imagining it.

Your hands trembled as they ventured down from his broad shoulders to the centre of his chest, breath hitching when you felt the rise and fall of his chest. Your heart almost stopped once you confirmed the steady beat of his under your hesitant touch. Flesh, blood and bone, knit together in a miraculous display of life. Marco was actually, truly alive again. A deep sigh escaped your quivering lips, but whether it was one of relief, joy or incredulity, you couldn’t be sure – maybe it was all three at once.

Your Marco, freed at last. Brought back where he belonged. Your lethargy all but forgotten, hands flew to your stomach, your heart fluttering erratically as the realisation of your ritual’s success dawned on you.

Almost all of the herbs you had prepared promised increased physical and magical power, but secondary effects also included marked increases to feracity, something you hadn’t even considered when preparing the effects for your ceremony.

Natural laws weren’t nearly so inflexible as people tended to believe – life didn’t have to be substituted for another life if a soul could be supplanted and revived in a viable host. That was the main reason why you had procured and conserved Marco’s corpse so meticulously.

The only snag in your plan was finding a way to forge a bond strong enough to anchor his soul until it was strong enough to stand on its own in the land of the living. Your original objective had been to bond him to yourself using his temporary, subsistent form, and the potions you had administered had been to strengthen your body in order to host a second soul alongside your own until that occurred.

But with Marco’s spirit securely fastened already within his own form, there was no doubt that something else had taken the opportunity to insert itself in the empty space, providing the much-needed bedrock to prevent Marco from slipping away. What better anchor to keep him with you than a child created from his own essence?

The world spun, your tired mind spiralling the moment you put the pieces together. You had never been one to go against the natural world, but especially not now when there was so much for you to gain. For nearly a decade, there had only been two constants in you and Marco, and you had worked with that in mind; but thanks to your accidental fertility-accelerating potions, it seemed that baby was set to make for a third. The rule of three; just as Nature had always intended.

[mommypieck]

⌗︙・threesome with marco & jean ⸜⸜・

cw// bottom!jean, top!marco

imagine sneaking into jeans bedroom only to find him being absolutely fucked dumb by his best friend marco. his moans and whines making u wetter and wetter by every second. u want to leave, but your eyes can't let go of the scene in front of u. marcos cock literally destroying jeans ass as jean locks his eyes with u and let's out a loud whine. marcos gaze lands on u too, his smile growing.

"are u gonna just stare here, baby¿ i think jean-boys cock needs some attention." he encourages u to get on your knees in front of them. u take jeans cock into your mouth just for him to start fucking your throat at instant, because of marcos thrusts. u lock your eyes with jeans again as u both moan at the same time. marco chuckles at both of u, "oh my little babies. be good y/n and im gonna fuck u after im done with this big boy."

[ao3feed-eremin]

Attack on Titan one shots

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/k9zPC0H

by Erwins_missing_arm

This is just a book of attack on titan one shots. It does include smut and kinks that everyone may not be interested in, so I will warn you about that. Just trying something different, hope everyone enjoys.

Words: 10, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/M, M/M

Characters: Levi Ackerman, Erwin Smith, Eren Yeager, Mikasa Ackerman, Armin Arlert, Jean Kirstein, Marco Bott, Hange Zoë

Relationships: Levi Ackerman/Hange Zoë, Levi Ackerman/Eren Yeager, Levi Ackerman/Erwin Smith, Mikasa Ackerman/Eren Yeager, Jean Kirstein/Eren Yeager, Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein, Armin Arlert/Jean Kirstein, Armin Arlert/Eren Yeager

Additional Tags: ereri, eruri - Freeform, levihan - Freeform, erejean - Freeform, Jearmin - Freeform, jeanmarco, Eremin - Freeform, Eremika - Freeform, oneshots, Kinky, Smut, Submissive Levi Ackerman, Top Eren Yeager

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/k9zPC0H

[iiraven]

Insecure men who don’t realise how long, fat, and perfect their cocks really are until they push into you and you are gasping at the way they are splitting you open, and clawing at their back as they fill up every inch of you.