this is a void where i like to express my obsession for all things aot, post updates on my fic wips and the writing process itself. sometimes i use it as a space to vent.
i'm an introverted little shit irl, yapper online.
currently writing for aot, jean specifically, loyal to him and him only to a point that borderlines insanity.
Do we wanna a f!hange x f!reader / rivals/coworkers/lovers astronaut au ???
I asked TikTok and it kinda flopped, hehe...
i've been thinking about this for days now, outlining and making the cover.
this would be the first fic of mine that doesn't center around jean and would mean i need to postpone writing his fics for even longer... buuut... i'm afraid that for my own sanity, i have to do it.
here's the synopsis i've come up with so far:
To step a foot onto the moon has always been your biggest dream. And you have worked toward it your entire life.
But three years ago, when that dream was finally within arm's reach, it was Hange Zoë who got chosen to make history as the first woman on the moon.
Assigned as her spare, you are forced to spend the next three years watching your dream slip from your grasp and into her hands.
Hating her would have been easy, if she weren't also the woman you had always admired and secretly loved.
Torn between love and jealousy, pride and bitterness, the night before launch forces the truth out at last.
Jean moves to relight the candle on the waiting cake. The strike of the match flares of gold, lighting the gritty and tender planes of his face. His tongue, the same one that was just in your mouth, is sticking a little out, something he does when he concentrates.
He's so beautiful, you have to focus on something else. So you watch how the wick trembles and comes fully back to life. And then he picks the cake back up.
"Your turn." He says, two minutes past midnight. "Make a wish."
You look at him and at the way the light dances in his hair, before closing your eyes.
Even in the dark of your eyelids, his face remains etched into your mind with the same precision as his drawing of Marco.
You take a breath, make your wish and blow the flame out.
The room plunges back into dark.
After setting the cake down, Jean finds your hands, laces his fingers through yours and draws you back toward him. "What did you wish for?"
"I can't tell you that." You reply quick.
"Why not?"
"You know if I say it out loud, it won't come true." You state the obvious.
Jean huffs through his nose. "That hardly seems fair."
You tilt your head. "How so?"
"I told you mine."
Your nose scrunches. "Not really."
"Okay, technically I showed you." His voice dips. "But it's only fair you tell me yours."
"That's true." You admit, head lowered. "And to be fair the only person who can make my wish come true is you."
When you lift your eyes back to his, your pulse is loud enough to make your voice quiet.
Jean takes your trembling hands up to the center of his chest where his heart thumps beneath the layer of his shirt. "Then tell me. Let me make your wish come true."
Watching his mouth move with those words, the memory of his kiss comes back evident and very much still there on your lips.
And in all honesty, you are simply tired of wanting him in silence, only being able to have him during the nights when you're fast asleep.
He lives in every corner of your heart, stitched tight.
You always look for him first. Always, like a part of you decided long ago that as long as Jean Kirstein is still standing, the world has not ended yet.
He's the reason why you drift toward him wherever you go, feet before mind.
He's the one you search through smoke and blood in every battle, spending countless, terrifying seconds counting heads and praying his is one amongst them.
And for all the times you have wanted to be the one protecting him, he is so often the one reaching back through the dust and ruin for you.
He has always been there and it has always been enough. You're loyal to him for that, but what made you fall soul-deep for him was the fear he only lets you see when the rest of the world doesn't pay attention.
So you gather every scattered piece of your courage and place it in his hands.
"Be mine tonight." You whisper and wait for an answer, hope for an embrace.
But neither come for what feels like eternity.
Your head overflows with scenarios and thoughts that are hard to catch up with, torturing you until he finally speaks.
"Tonight?" He repeats and then quickly shakes his head. "No."
The word cleaves straight through you. The heart in your chest splits in two and then in million more pieces at once, shattering the brittle hope you just dared to build.
You recoil, pulling your hands back. "Right." A breathless, broken laugh finds its way out. "Right, of course. I don't know what I was thinking."
"I'm sorry." You rush to continue, trying to hide the wound he impaled. "That was stupid. I shouldn't have said that. I just... tonight and the kiss and the drawing and I thought..."
"I just got confused." You stammer, shake your head and look anywhere but at him. "Forget it. Really. You can just forget I said anything."
You want to vanish. You want to turn back the clock and un-wish the embarrassment.
But before you can, Jean's hand catches your jaw, forcing you to face him. "Look at me."
You follow his command and meet his blazing gaze. "I'm not doing just tonight."
The sting behind your eyes shifts into confusion.
"So if you want me..." He adds, stroking your cheek. "It has to be real. Not just tonight because it's your birthday. If you want me, then ask me for real."
Real. Not just tonight. His words echo through the empty chambers of your heart that have been left vacant by devastation forged of suffering in this cruel world.
"I never thought I could wish for more." You admit, reaching for him to root your cheek into his palm.
"It's your wish." He lowers his head on yours. "You can wish for anything in the world. I want you to wish for more."
And when you think of the world, your world, all you see is Jean.
"Be mine." You ask again, stronger, even more certain. "Tonight. When the sun comes up. For as long as we're given. For as long as this world lets us be."
Jean's face gives, resistance finally loosening its grip on him as well.
His hand leaves your cheek to find your waist. He pulls you close and then he kisses you again.
Not as chaste as before. Not as slow for the sake of caution. It's tender, still Jean. A kiss that lands with the answer you have been waiting for.
With his mouth, he steals the breath from your lungs and before you know it you are moving backward beneath its force.
Your steps sync, your hands grab at his shirt, keeping yourself upright until the backs of your thighs collide with the wooden frame of your bunk.
The mattress bends to your shape first, then Jean follows. Braced above you on one forearm while the other hand slides from your jaw deep into your hair, Jean tilts your head to keep the connection unbroken.
Moonlight pours over his shoulders and cuts silver along his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. The rest of him is left in a shadow.
At last he's close. At last he's yours.
He kisses you again. And again. Each kiss deeper than the last.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, your legs part beneath him and Jean makes the smallest sound against your lips.
When he pulls back, his breathing is a jagged ruin, his mouth is flushed, just as yours.
You swallow the remains of that last kiss to keep it deep within you.
And then you speak. "Does this mean you're going to make my wish come true?"
The corner of his mouth lifts and his head shakes a slow denial. "No." He pauses for a second. "This is me making both of our wishes come true."
He descends, kissing you with profound devotion.
The old bunk creaks the more Jean moves and explores your skin. Lips, cheeks, nose. Then jaw and neck.
You catch a quick glimpse of him between your own eager kisses. Up close like this, he looks wrecked, pupils wide, mouth kiss-swollen and skin glistening with fine sheen of sweat in the moonlight.
And still, even with all that, there is caution in him, that gentle tame, part of Jean that shows his weakness and strength, tremble and calm, the beautiful existence of his human nature.
His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "You sure you want this?"
Your heart beats so hard it hurts and you answer him with the most desperate nod.
He pulls back and begins to unbutton your blouse, unblinkingly watching every inch of skin revealed.
When you rid yourself of the blouse completely, he pauses.
His piercing eyes move over you with such astonishment you almost reach up to cover yourself.
But then he touches you with a light brush of fingertips over your ribs.
"You're beautiful." He says. And the sheer simplicity of his words, make every nerve inside you tangle of joy and excitement.
You join in with your clumsy hands when he starts working on his own shirt.
And after a few buttons, he leaves his clothing to your fumbling grace, focusing instead on your pants.
You become more aware than ever that this is real and it's happening. This is not another dream you will wake from aching.
Here he is, warm skin and muscle under your palm. You trace your open hand over the scar on his collar bone, faint line from a training mishap, and he shivers, goosebumps rising along his forearm.
Jean exhales sharply through his nose and stands up to shed the rest of his clothes.
You follow suit, though you're clumsier, perhaps even in a little more rush than he is.
You hear him chuckle as he joins you in the bed, now fully naked.
Skin meets skin, cool at first, but warming fast when he takes the folded blanket and drapes it over both of you.
Your lips meet again, but suddenly it becomes a beautiful mess. Awkwardly, your noses bump hard before you adjust, teeth clack in a rush and out of sync movement.
It seems like the weight of what is about to happen is getting to him too, making him overthink.
Still, even with that, his mouth is full of comfort and pleasant, but so unsure. His tongue pushes in too fast, reaching for intimacy that catches you off guard. You pull back with a surprised gasp and a nervous giggle.
He freezes, eyes wide with apology. "Sorry, shit, I didn't mean to-"
"It's okay." You murmur, cupping his face, rubbing the stubble under your palms when you stroke unevenly. "We're figuring it out."
He leans into the touch, eyes fluttering shut and when he opens them again, it feels as though he is handing you his very soul.
God, you love him for that, for this shaky honesty he's not afraid to show you.
You take his hand and guide it to cup your breast. There, he circles your nipple with his thumb. And as it hardens, you gasp while the touch sears through you and settles with a newfound sense of desire between your legs.
This primal feeling makes your hips twitch and your exhale more moan-like.
"Too much?" He asks, stalling the motion.
"No." You arch your spine until your stomachs touch. "Just right."
Suddenly you feel like you're being 'too much', wondering if this untamed, starving need for him is a mirror of his own desire.
Instead of asking, just because you can't find the right words, you reach down and wrap your fingers around his cock. It's hard and throbbing, telling you that he's just as lost in this as you are.
He groans, hips jerking forward. Something wet slicks your palm. Pre-cum. That must be it.
His face flushes deep red, embarrassed by the uncontrolled twitch.
"Oh, I didn't mean-" You exclaim, questioning if he liked it and almost letting go.
"No, it's good. Feels good." He reassures, tightening your hand around him with his.
He thrusts a few times in your unmoving hand, before you catch his pace and start stroking, feeling him and the vein pulsing under your grip.
Your eyes lock and he nods. His hand lets go of yours and finds its way between your legs.
You continue your slow strokes while he leans and presses wet and open-mouthed lips against your neck. He nips too sharply and you yelp, laughing. He chuckles too, easing the tension.
Then he touches you too. His fingers feel careful while he gets to know you and the feel of your pussy between his fingers. Up and down and around your clit. He circles once, then twice and then you just stop counting when the feeling gets too intense.
You breathe deeper and louder, shifting and yielding to the building pressure until your knees feel like giving up on holding themselves high.
He eases himself on top of you. His cock brushes the inside of thigh, leaving a small, wet trail and you both pause.
"Slow." He rasps, arms trembling, his sweaty forehead coming to rest against yours.
"Yeah." You whisper and part your legs awkwardly, since he has already managed to make them half-numb. "Slow."
Your hand guides him, positioning the crown of his cock at your entrance and coating it well.
He's shaking, muscles taut, and when he pushes inward, your head falls back against the pillow.
It burns a little. The pressure of him filling the space that's been waiting for him for so long, hurts in the best way possible.
You tense, bite into your lower lip and dig your nails deep into the muscles of his shoulders.
He stops immediately, buried halfway, eyes wide with protective worry. "Does it hurt? Tell me if it hurts."
"Keep going." You pant, unwilling to let this moment break, not even for a second.
He presses a soothing kiss to your bitten lip and moves.
At first, you struggle to sync. Your hips stutter too much, he slides out too soon before pushing back in.
"Sorry." He mutters, burying his face in your neck.
You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer, stomachs pressing together. The awkwardness begins to melt away when he quietly moans against your ear. You moan back at him, encouraging him.
He moves faster, his thrusts grow in power and the friction becomes pleasant amid the ache. He bottoms out completely, whimpering as your walls clench and welcome him.
Your clit, missing his touch, throbs and you reach down to seek what you need yourself while he fucks into you.
Jean's breaths turn into a series of harsher pants and erratic loss of control.
"I'm close." He warns.
You nod, chasing your own edge, fingers pressing hard and stubborn.
He comes first, body shuddering with your name on his lips. You feel him pulsing wrapped tightly inside you as his cum floods you.
That, coupled with the frantic work of your own hands, rips you apart. First ever, shared orgasm crashes through you, making you flutter and squirm around him all while raw sobs and curses leave your lips.
Together you tremble, locked in a tight embrace.
Jean's weight collapses onto you, his head falling to the pillow beside yours.
For a while the two of you lay silent with only your hearts hammering in unison.
"That was..." He trails off, turning his head and kissing your sweaty temple.
"Perfect." You finish, threading fingers through his damp hair, watching his eyes reflect the moonlight.
Only when the adrenaline ebbs and he pulls out, you feel the sting where he stretched you. But god, it's the best pain in the world.
And now you're tied to him physically, making your heart flood with love so fierce it brings sudden tears to your eyes.
You're happy, so deeply, achingly happy, wrapped in his arms.
"Does it hurt?" He asks, voicing an anxious worry and wiping a tear off the corner of your eye. "Is that why you're crying? Did I-"
You shake your head, smiling and reaching up to turn his palm so you can kiss it. "No, Jean. I'm just... happy. So happy it's overwhelming."
Relief washes over him as he decides to believe your expression. "Has your birthday wish come true, then?"
You nod and pull him into a short kiss. "Yeah. Every bit of it."
"Good." His smile seems to light up the room more than the moon. "Now how about that cake?"
You can't help but laugh at the way he so quickly switches from intense to simple. But it feels right, like it's supposed to be this way between the two of you.
And now, filled with this new experience and how not at all weird it all feels, you both stumble out of the bunk and settle on the floor, wrapped in blankets to share the cake that's meant just for the two of you, on your birthdays.
jean kirstein x f!reader/me/anyone who's birthday is april 8th / canon / two part fic
Synopsis: Jean's birthday is on April 7th, yours on April 8th.
After you talked Commander Hange into throwing a little party, Jean surprises you with a private moment between the two of you right when your birthdays overlap.
author's note: hello! i wrote this fic in honor of jean and mine birthdays already last year but was too chickenshit to post it. this year, though, i thought i'll share it anyway.
this could be considered a heavy self insert since the date of my birthday is crucial to the plot. that said, i still wrote it in second person just because that's what i'm used to and no specific characteristics are given to the 'reader' character.
content warnings: mention of grief
word count : 2'289
also on ao3 and wattpad
April, 4th
The setting sun breaches the tall windows of the command office, casting long shadows across the maps and tea-stained ledgers that you mindlessly look at just to have your eyes on something while you sit and wait for Commander Hange and Captain Levi.
Your knee bounces under the table and your heart hammers against your ribs when they enter the room just as the golden hour turns to dusk.
To ask for a celebration in a time between the discovery of Marley and preparing for war against humanity outside the walls instead of titans within them, feels like asking for a miracle, yet you muster the courage to propose it anyway.
A joint birthday party in the common hall for you and Jean.
Your birthdays fall just a day apart. His on the 7th, yours on the 8th. And for years you have spoken of this cosmic alignment deserving to have a proper celebration. Yet, year after year, every possible thing in the book has stood in its way.
And you are done waiting, especially as this might as well be the last birthday you ever get to have.
You arranged the meeting armed for a siege of a different kind, arguments sharp and polished to a syllable.
You speak of morale, that hair-thin thing the regiment so desperately needs to feast on.
You offer a bargain Hange cannot refuse, a month of drowning in their paperwork so they might finally see the surface of their overflowing desk.
To win over the Captain's inevitable rejection, you pledge a cleaning so thorough the common hall will look as though humanity has never even touched it.
Hange beams, their enthusiasm so sudden and genuine that it feels like you have accidentally sabotaged yourself since they would have granted the request for a simple please and thank you.
Captain Levi, on the other hand, doesn't share Hange's warmth. Even with your vow, his cold eyes cut through your every fear.
"You break so much as a floorboard and you'll be scrubbing every toilet in this district until your next birthday. Understood?" His warning makes the marrow in your bones ache.
"Understood, Captain." You steady your voice to back your hundred percent conviction, even as the tremor in your hands betrays the sliver of doubt he has so chillingly placed in you.
But for Jean, the risk is worth taking. You love him with a ferocity that makes any sacrifice seem small. The toilet brushes and ink-stained fingers don't scare you one bit.
April, 7th
After days of frantic preparation and boisterous help of your fellow scouts, the stone walls of the common hall are transformed.
Chairs have been pushed to the perimeter to make room for the swaying bodies, a "Happy Birthday!" banner, hand-taped by Sasha, hangs crooked above the hearth. The room feels more alive than ever.
In the right corner, Eren is sipping from a cup of punch that smells more like fuel than fruit, while Connie and Sasha are locked in a battle of some sort of drinking game.
Hange, already three drinks deep into the party, laughs too hard along with everyone else, while Levi, a very tired solo chaperone with profound judgement, stands against the wall, arms crossed tight.
You find Jean through the lantern light. Connie has managed to forcefully crown him with a gold-paper circle that sits askew on his ashen hair.
He looks embarrassed, rolling his eyes every time someone points it out and wishes him happy birthday for the hundredth time. But he is smiling.
Your chest swells with honey-like warmth from seeing that smile that's so very rare these days.
You take another sip of the cloyingly sweet, deceptively fruity punch that's laced with enough alcohol to make the room tilt.
Then, the sea of bodies parts and Jean moves toward you with purpose in his stride.
He stops so close you can smell the cider that clings to him.
"Come with me." He says, leaning close until his breath stirs the hair at your temple.
"What?" You blink and the world blurs when he pulls at your hand and twirls you toward the door. "Jean, the party—"
"Party can wait." His fingers slide deeper between yours. "C'mon."
He doesn't wait for your 'yes' and you don't protest.
You let him lead you away, past the noise and the crowd, past Hange's cackling and Levi's silent scowl. Then down the hallway, out of the common hall and all the way to the quiet of the barracks.
When you reach the door to your quarters, Jean's hand reaches the iron latch before he swings it open and steps aside, ushering you into the dark.
You stop just past the threshold and let Jean close the door behind you.
It's dark, but the moon shining straight through the window lets you see clearly.
There's a small cake on your desk, frosted in a thick white cream with blood-red strawberries crowning the rim. It is a humble thing, just large enough for two, with a single candle on its top and two tarnished forks beside it.
You turn to him, stunned. "You planned this?"
"I planned and Mikasa helped." He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly bashful. "Figured we deserved this moment to be ours."
Your heart flutters so hard it nearly knocks you over. "You didn't have to, you know?"
With a swift shake of his head, he speaks. "I wanted to. You put everything into organizing the party. You deserve to be celebrated too."
You look away, your shy gaze wandering for an anchor until it lands on your bunk where resting against your pillow, is a pale, folded square of paper. "Is that for me?"
When you look at him, he's nodding with a smile on his face.
"I have something for you too." You walk to your dresser to retrieve a present you have been keeping safe and hidden for weeks. "You first."
He takes it from your hands carefully, fingers quickly tapping against yours during the exchange. And the moment he sees what's inside, his eyes widen.
An art set. A proper one. Graphite and charcoal, pencils with colored leads and a leather-bound sketchbook with creamy, pure white pages you managed to sneak from town the last time you were on supply duty.
"You told me once…" You thread quietly. "That you used to draw."
"That was a lifetime ago." He traces the spine of the sketchbook, face clouded with a sudden melancholy. "I haven't held a pencil for anything but reports in years."
"Maybe it's time you get back into it." You encourage, stepping into his space.
Jean doesn't answer with words, just a smile. He then takes a few steps toward your bed, lifting and handing you the folded paper from the bed.
"This is the last thing I ever drew." He murmurs. "Before Trost. Before Mar—"
You unfold the paper with bated breath, squinting to catch the details in the lunar glow.
It is a window into a world that no longer exists. There is Marco, your cousin. Though he was more like a brother to you. Fifteen, freckled and radiantly alive, sitting shoulder to shoulder with you in the Training Corps library.
The lines are exquisite, so detailed.
Your faces down at a book, completely lost in thought. For a second you don't know how to respond, because a simple thank you just doesn't seem enough.
And you remember that day.
The library was too stuffy, golden afternoon light making the drifting dust look almost pretty. You and Marco were tucked on the same side of the table, trying to get your minds off what's to come the next day, Battle of Trost.
Jean was there too. Off in the corner by the window, hidden behind a book he very obviously was not reading.
You and Marco noticed him almost at the same time.
You made jokes about him and Marco laughed into his sleeve since he was always self conscious about his smile.
And when Jean looked up with that annoyed little furrow in his brow, the two of you ducked your heads and pretended to read again.
Your eyes dart over the page again, taking in every precise line. "That day. You were sitting in the corner by the window and Marco and I were convinced you were writing some miserable diary entry about how everyone around you was insufferable and you seemed to be the only sane enough."
A startled laugh breaks out of Jean's chest. "That does sound like something I would've written."
"Yeah, no one knew you better than he did." You add, the nostalgia turning bittersweet in your throat.
He too then looks down at the drawing in your hands, thumb rubbing its edge. "I want you to have it."
You look up.
He shrugs, but fails to hide the raw ache in his eyes. "It'd be a shame for it to stay hidden with my things. And... a few weeks ago, you said you had forgotten what he looked like."
You had said that. Late at night, on the rooftop where you and Jean sometimes sneak away on cloudless nights to watch stars.
In a voice cracked open by guilt, you admitted something you didn't want to ever say out loud. The time had stolen and eroded the details of Marco. And every time you reached for him in your mind, there was no smile, no eyes, just a blank space.
Jean takes a small step closer.
"I haven't." He says quietly. "Forgotten, I mean." His eyes flicker to the page. "I have his face memorized anyway."
The words hit you gently, but you recognize that they are not mocking, he's not trying to say that his memory of Marco is more important. It sounds more like 'if you need, I'll remind you, I'll draw him back into existence for you, I'll grieve with you'.
Your throat tightens so fast and tight it burns.
"Jean..." Your fingers curl around the precious page, then loosen immediately, terrified of bruising the image. "You gave me Marco's face back."
He stills and says nothing. He only watches you with that raw, unguarded softness he so rarely lets anyone see.
A shaky smile pulls at your mouth. "That's the greatest gift anyone could ever give me."
Your arms wrap around his middle and he catches you immediately, arms closing around you with a fortress like strength.
You press your cheek to his chest, breathing him in while emotion gathers hot behind your eyes.
"Thank you." You whisper into the linen of his shirt.
Jean holds you, one hand splayed between your shoulder blades, the other resting at your nape so protective, it feels like he's holding every bit of pain from reaching you.
Then, you feel him shift and tip his head toward the wall. His eyes catch on the clock above your desk.
"You know…" He murmurs near your temple. "As much as I'd love to keep making you cry on our birthdays..."
A tiny, snotty laugh escapes you, muffled against his chest.
"I think I should probably address that candle before my time runs out."
Your brows pinch and you follow his gaze. The clock's hands are hovering just two minutes shy of the midnight.
Still April 7th.
Still Jean's birthday.
You let him light the wick on the candle and pick the cake up.
He holds it between the two of you and you watch the amber light of the flame flicker against his skin, reflecting in his honey-brown eyes.
"Make a wish, birthday boy." You urge while it's still his day.
He grimaces and acts like he's making a wish, or maybe he actually is. It's hard to tell in the dim of the room.
And then he blows it. A single breath and the warm light disappears, leaving him only moon-bathed and smoke-wrapped.
Jean's attention moves back to you again.
Something has shifted in his expression. It's slight, but unmistakable. That familiar sharpness of a soldier has softened and you can't help but ask. "What did you wish for?"
He sets the cake onto the desk without taking his eyes off you and crosses the remaining three inches separating the two of you.
"Only the same thing I've been wishing for every birthday and upon every fallen star since I was fifteen."
His hands rise to your face before you can decide what to do with the way your heart trips over itself. The two warm and calloused palms are now cradling at your head, thumbs against the shells of your ears where the echo of your own pulse becomes louder.
And then he leans to kiss you. Slowly, with intention in it, as if he has finally decided to let it happen despite the world being against it.
Your fingers hold tight onto the fabric of his shirt, though he doesn't give any sign of retreat.
There's nowhere else to be, the world, the war, the titans can all wait behind those closed doors. That's how he kisses you.
Only his lips and yours, soft and sweet and just a little clumsy when tongues get involved. And his breath feels warm mixing with yours. You, now certain, know you were made to share the same air.
When you part and your foreheads hover close, your lips tingle, hands refusing to let go of his shirt for a moment longer.
You open your eyes first. Then his open too and with a slow turn of a head, he looks at the clock again.
modern au / childhood bestfriends to lovers / holiday fic
finished 9/9 || wc 85k+
christmas fluff, found family, comfort
❅ SYNOPSIS
Your childhood best friend and college roommate invites you to spend Christmas with his family.
Hallmark level fluff about two best friends realizing that they are so much more.
❅ read on ao3 & wattpad
❅ visuals on pinterest
❅ updates on tiktok
keep reading for the prologue
❅ PROLOGUE
To the outside world, Jean Kirstein is a human argument waiting to happen, a grenade with a loose pin. He’s blunt. A little cocky. Not afraid to piss people off if it means telling the truth.
But to you he’s been a shelter. Nothing but loyal, protective and always there. The only person you have ever fully trusted.
It all started during a third-grade biology class, of all places. Assigned seats, two to a desk and you ended up next to him. It was a random twist of fate that felt insignificant until it became a chosen life sentence. From that day on, he was your default, your plus-one, your person. Always.
Through every school project, every lunch, every triumph and tragedy, he was your constant. If there ever was a choice to be made, the answer was simple. You and Jean. Jean and you.
And when it wasn’t school, it was everything else. Summer camps. After-school clubs. Study groups. If you weren’t side by side, you were cheering each other on from the sidelines.
So when the foundation of your own home crumbled and the shouting matches between your parents weren't about who would get to keep you, but who would be stuck with you, the choice was simple. You didn't choose your father's house because you liked it better, you chose it, because it was the one closest to Jean.
And when your mother left and your dad couldn’t care less, the Kirsteins didn't just open their door to their house, they invited you into their home.
His dad painted the spare bedroom in your favorite color. His mom decorated it like it was always meant for you. You could come and go as you pleased. They never treated you like an inconvenience. Never made you feel like a guest.
They called you family. And more than a decade later, you and Jean are still you and Jean.
Now both in college, renting a two-bedroom apartment off campus, you’re still as inseparable and loyal to each other as the day you met. Different majors. Same chaotic friendship. Same impossible closeness.
And a few days before Christmas break, you’re sitting cross-legged on the living room couch, textbooks and barely started essays spread across the coffee table, phone in your palm as you hang up a call with your mom.
canon x modern au / jean kirstein & f!reader / oneshot
finished 1/1 || wc 7.4k+
time travel/reverse isekai crack fic / no smut
❉ SYNOPSIS
When Hange’s latest “invention” sends Jean hurtling into the modern world, he finds himself in a universe where Titans, walls and the war between Paradis and Marley are all part of a worldwide phenomenon called “Attack on Titan”.
You, a sarcastic barista, mistake him for an overly dedicated cosplayer and decides to play along, showing him around and introducing him to fandom, TikTok edits and the horrors of fanfiction.
Live update: next day brunch and they are sitting together, hugging, laughing. Doesn't help that they both are hot 🥹 I know I'm being a creep but I ship it 🫣
Wattpad removed 'higher' from my profile. Boo. So I'm uploading it here.
[art used for the cover credit: yuka_levi]
author's note: this is my very first one shot. I wrote it as a challenge to myself to improve my smut-writing skills. So the purpose of this is just that with a little bit of plot. I decided to share it in case some of you just want a quick little smutty fix in-between reading longfics. Enjoy. 😘
therapist/masseur!Jean x f!reader
18+ content
He has already checked you for any serious injuries and, thankfully, found none. Just a few twists and pulls that ache when you walk, but will probably go away on their own in a few days.
Today's session, therefore, becomes all about giving your muscles a little something to be grateful for. A therapeutic, relaxing touch.
He takes you into what you jokingly call 'the putty room', because it's the only place you ever let yourself go boneless and the only place where he can work you down until you're nothing but breath and pulse and skin.
Ten minutes is what he gives you to get ready. Just enough time to sink into the little sanctuary he has crafted, where everything is tuned to force your body into surrender. The walls are painted a muted green to make the room feel smaller and cozier.
Every piece of furniture is wooden, every accessory given a texture, insisting on natural grounding.
In the center sits the massage bed, draped of course in a dark green cover so soft you're almost scared to touch it.
You slip out of your clothes and change into a pair of flimsy, little disposable panties that hardly pass for any decency, yet are still required.
Your motions are accompanied by the sound of a little stone fountain trickling faintly on top of one of the counters. It adds to the earthy illusion fitting well together with a few different plants scattered around the space.
And to emphasize privacy, a heavy curtain that matches the bed cover, hides away the ugly window, making this the perfect hide-out from the outside world.
Jean walks in a moment after you stretch out belly-down on the bed, cheek pressed into the cushion.
He's holding a towel in one hand and a glass bottle in the other. You watch him walk over to the counter where a small oil warming device sits.
"Got something new for you today." He swings the bottle in your direction before turning the cap and cracking it open. "Fig and mandarin. Thought I would spare you the lavender."
The moment the cap is off, you can smell it. Sweet and fruity. You take a deep whiff, letting the scent enter your nose and chest. He has gotten you right. He always does.
The weight of a folded towel lands over your ass, covering what little decency the panties don't.
"Thank god. You know how I feel about smelling like a soap aisle." Your laugh comes quiet and relaxed as you sink deeper into the bedding beneath you.
He grins, setting the oil bottle down on the warmer. "I remember. You made it very clear the first time I tried it."
The slow spa music starts humming through the room, broken only by the polite beep from the warmer when it signals its finished task.
"You ready?" He asks slower and lower now, adjusting to a relaxing voice that's needed for the job.
You hum, pressing the face straight down into the breathing hole. "Always."
Jean tips the bottle and the first drops of oil land between your shoulder blades. Warm and silky they trickle down the ridge of your spine in a slow path.
His palms follow, spreading the oil in long strokes across your back, smoothing it into your skin. The scent mixes with your body heat immediately, making the sweet mandarin and a darker undertone of fig become richer in the space around you.
"Tell me if I'm going too hard." He murmurs, palms sliding steady over your oiled skin.
You let yourself hum, your body already giving his touch all freedom to roam.
"You're always just right." The words leave your lips with a sigh, punctuated with a small, involuntary sound of content each time his thumbs find a knot and press it away.
The room fills with them. Your soft, uneven noises, his breaths and the sound of his hands smoothing the oil over the tension in your back.
A sharper sound escapes you when he digs into the base of your spine. You try stifling it by pressing your lips together.
His movements still for the briefest moment, heat coming off him where he stands over you. "You good?"
"Yeah, keep going." You eagerly reply.
Then his hands return to their rhythm.
"You truly are the best at this." You praise. "Promise me you won't retire early or move away. I don't think anyone else could ever work magic on me the way you do."
His palms pause mid-stroke, fingers splayed across your lower back. For a moment, your words just hang between the whiffs of the scented oil, before his voice comes back. "You don't have to worry about that. I'm not going anywhere any time soon."
His thumbs press deeper, working the muscle to prove his point. He leans just slightly over you and you catch the warmth of his breath near your ear when he adds. "Besides, you need these hands too much."
He moves back up when his hands slide over the slope of your waist until they meet the edge of the towel.
You feel it then and it's not the first time it has happened. Somehow Jean has the ability to to turn you on without ever reaching for the obvious places. He doesn't have to kiss you, cup your breasts, squeeze your ass or touch your pussy for you to be gone by the massage alone.
And though part of you wants him to just rip the towel away and fuck you mad, he's a professional.
So he doesn't lift it, doesn't test the barrier. He just skips over it.
His palms claim your calves next, strong fingers wrapping around muscles on each leg and coaxing them loose. He works with slow, kneading motions, digging thumbs into the knots just below your knees before moving downwards to your ankles, then up again.
"Your legs." He mutters to himself. "They're impressive, but way too tense."
You huff, staring at the floor through the hole, voice teasing. "Maybe it's because someone insists on watching my every performance."
And he has. Ever since you invited him to one of your shows, he's been showing up to nearly every single one, even though they're always the same.
His hands push higher, to the back of your knees, working their way up to your thighs.
And the higher he gets, the more careful his touch becomes. "Guess that makes me your biggest fan and your clean-up crew."
You can hear a smile on his face while he pushes out a tender knot with the heel of his palm.
"Clean-up crew?" You murmur pointed. "Give me a bit more respect. Me battering my body is what keeps you in business."
Jean huffs through his nose, but it fizzles out when his hands climb to your upper thighs, right at the base of your ass.
His touch changes there. Each press of his thumbs sinking deeper into muscle is thought-out and more precise. The pressure makes your toes curl and when he hits a particularly tight spot, you can't help but whimper.
You feel him recoil a little after the sound before he's back to his rhythm.
Now at your hip bone, he spreads his palms out across your lower back. "Does this hurt?" He asks, whispering.
"Yeah... But in that good way." You answer with no hesitation.
Jean shifts closer, his breath hitching as you arch upwards. "Relax."
"I am relaxed." You protest, lying to him just a little.
He continues working your hip and lower back, his movements becoming more soothing. His thumbs trace patterns on your skin that seem almost hypnotic. He feels you melting under him as he works out the last of the knots.
"I'm going to focus here now." Jean's voice is husky when he adjusts his stance to get the right angle to your thighs again.
Your arms lie slack at your sides, hands almost dangling over the edge of the table, fingertips brushing the air. You don't move when his body shifts closer.
He focuses intently on the flesh and muscle on your inner thigh. "Any pain here?"
And then it happens. Whether by accident or not, you can't tell. His hips angle forward as he leans in to dig his thumbs harder into your leg and the unmistakable weight of his arousal grazes against your hand where it hangs.
He's hard. You made him hard and that fact only intensifies your want.
You can feel yourself throbbing with your own need. The wetness of your pussy already seeping through the paper-thin barrier of those pathetic panties, making it feel like the material is dissolving against your skin.
Every press of his hands sends a signal of feral urge straight between your legs, every pause winds you tighter.
You decide to take a chance. Because, fuck, you want him so bad right now.
"Higher." You test, not trying to sound awkward.
Piece by piece, he climbs. His touch heavier the closer he gets. Until his fingers are brushing the edge of the towel draped across your ass. He stops there, every muscle in his forearm rigid.
"Here?" He asks when he reaches the spot he thinks you indicated.
"Higher." You repeat yourself, provoking.
He hesitates before moving just a little more up, then stopping.
"Higher." You shift just a little to press yourself against his hand.
"How sure are you about this?" He murmurs, voice pitched low.
Your lips curl, yet he's unaware of your expression. "Check."
That single word is all it takes.
"Here?" Swallowing hard, Jean's fingers slip further under the towel, dragging the thin scrap of fabric or what's left of it aside with deliberate care. He carefully presses his thumbs directly above your pussy.
"Yeah." The word comes out in a whispered breath.
"Fuck." He mutters, thumb brushing experimentally, coming away wet instantly.
He tries his best to compose himself, but you can feel the tremor in his usually steady hands.
The towel slips from your body with a quiet rustle, falling forgotten to the floor. The air cools against your exposed skin, but the heat from his fingertips erases it instantly.
Jean is still trying to cling to his professionalism, but gives it up the second you move, urging yourself into his touch.
You moan into nothing, head still lodged into the cushion hole. "Mhm... Right there."
His thumbs work in more pressure against the skin that parts your cunt. He focuses on the spot that drags moans out of your throat. "Does that feel better?"
"Not just yet." You answer, lying and scared that he will stop if you say yes.
A growl rumbles in his chest at your response. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and tears it apart easily. The material ruined by you, gets finished up by him.
His thumb presses directly onto your clit now, index tracing your slit without pushing in. "How about now?"
"Almost." You answer, trying to push yourself onto his finger, but he doesn't let you.
His breath short-circuits and jaw ticks at the sight of your bare skin under his hand.
His other palm braces against your inner thigh, urging it wider.
And then his finger slides in, catching you off guard for the briefest second. "And now?"
You gasp when he moves the finger in and out. You can't help but move along it, humping it, desperate for more. More fingers. More friction. More him.
"Don't stop." You beg so easily.
His hand keeps working, but his breathing changes. It becomes shallower as though he's waiting to see if you will return the favor or just let him do all the work.
So you reach for him, finding his groin without looking. You press your palm against the outline and measure the length of his cock through the fabric of his pants.
He hums a throaty sound in response before clearing his throat and shifting back half-step, putting space between your hand and his hard-on.
"Lift up for me." Jean says or rather demands.
You obey, raising your hips, arching into the air like an offering.
The bed creaks beneath you when he climbs onto it himself, knees sinking into the padding between your thighs. The space shrinks instantly, when the wall of his body presses close.
His hands spread wide across your bare ass, kneading firm over the cheeks. Careful at first, still clinging to the excuse of his craft. But the longer he circles the peaks of your oiled-up bottom and the deeper his fingers dig, the more it feels like possession.
"Good girl." He roughly mutters under his breath. The press into your curves spreads you wider, testing how far you will open up to him.
His hands never stop moving. His thumbs begin to drift, sliding inward, circling close to where you're already throbbing for him. But to him there's no rush. He spreads you open gradually, the pads of his thumbs brushing along your folds exploring.
The massage oil he poured over your back has slicked its way down, coating his fingers.
"What a sight." He whispers, guiding fingers up and down.
A shaky sound leaves you as he drags one thumb up through the whole length from your clit to the base of your entrance.
The scent of the oil has now mixed with the raw, heady smell of your need. The room feels drenched in it.
Jean exhales harshly, jaw tight. "Christ… you're soaked."
His thumbs keep the motion going. Circling, parting, making every glide of his hands feel filthier than the last one.
You quiver under his touch until the bed creaks again and he adjusts, lowering himself between your legs. His broad shoulders wedge between your thighs while your knees slip close to the edge of the mattress.
The heat of his breath reaches you first, fanning across your slick skin. His head settles between your legs, his mouth so close you swear you can feel the ghost of it already.
His thumbs hold you spread as his eyes lock on your pussy. And then, in that gruff, dry tone of his, he mutters. "This oil better be organic."
A broken huff bursts out of you, shaking your whole body. You fight to center yourself, because if your knee slips, you will crush his face with your cunt and that's not something you're ready to explain to the authorities.
With your pussy glistening open for him, he gives you his next command. "Lower yourself."
Your thighs tremble, but his big hands hold you steady, thumbs digging into the meat of your ass to keep you spread.
Then his tongue flicks out. One single swipe from the bottom of your entrance all the way up to your clit.
The sound that rushes up your throat and tumbles over your lips is closer to a sob than a moan.
His tongue dips lower, slow strokes pushing between your folds, circling your entrance. He doesn't push inside. He stays just around the edge, fucking you shallow with the tip before gliding back up to your clit, brushing over it feather-light. Each pass makes you twitch harder, thighs straining against his grip.
You whimper into the cushion. "Please."
"Please what?" He hums against you, lips pressing a kiss and tongue lapping at the wetness spilling out of you.
"Don't tease me like that." You breathe. "I can't."
His answer is a sharp suck to your clit, sudden and brutal, making you cry out.
Then he backs off again, tongue flattening against you in broad, sloppy strokes that leave you wetter, messier and even more pathetically desperate.
You're getting more needy. He pulls back to blow a gentle breath over you. You jolt.
Then he's back in there, alternating like that. Slow rounds, deep licks, sudden bursts of suction until your hips start rocking shamelessly against his face. And Jean lets you.
He encourages you by dragging you down harder against his mouth, nose buried right into you as he devours every drop you give him like he skipped breakfast.
His growl makes your pussy buzz.
Each drag of his tongue is now deeper, wetter, filthier, until the oil mixes with his saliva and the taste of you on his lips.
His tongue tenses when he lets it slide deep inside you, exploring and fucking you in the same motion.
The sound that you make is loud and unguarded. Your arms tremble where they grip the edges of the table and you try to tilt your head to try and catch a glimpse of what he's doing to you.
"Jean—" Your voice cracks.
When he seals his lips around your clit and sucks properly, tongue flicking fast over the swollen and throbbing bit of nerves, your vision blazes white. Your hands claw deeper at the edge of the table, nails digging in as your whole body arches.
"Fuck, yes… Don't stop." You beg, pressing down harder, locking yourself to his mouth so he can't pull away.
Thankfully he doesn't. He doubles down, tongue relentless against your clit.
And when it hits, it's not gentle. It rips you violently. Your legs shake, almost giving out. Your body writhes as you come hard against his mouth.
He stays with you through it, collecting everything you're still drenching him in.
The sucking and lapping doesn't end until the aftershocks have you gasping, twitching and begging him to stop.
Only then he let you go, lips wet and chin slick.
He slides out from between your legs and you crash flat against the bed.
But he's far from done when his palms slide under your ribs, urging you to roll with a strength that makes not only your body but also your head spin too.
You land sprawled on your back, chest heaving, legs falling open instinctively.
He hooks his hands under your thighs and drags you down, your ass sliding to the very edge of the bed. The position leaves you exposed and spread wide for him.
He steps in between your legs, pulls his pants down dragging his boxers along with them to let his proud, hard cock spring out.
Out of the pocket of his robe, he pulls a condom. You wonder why it's so conveniently there, but at this point you're not about to kill the mood by asking. You're too needy and he's too hot.
He rips the foil and rolls it on. Then he takes himself in hand and slowly drags his cock through the mess between your legs, coating it.
The first thrust is gentle. He fills you to the hilt, knocking the breath out of you.
His hands clamp your thighs while he makes a few testing rolls of his hips.
Then he spreads you wider and speeds up. Standing tall over your body and with sweat dripping down his forehead, every stroke is hard and precise, slamming against you and making the sound echo off the walls in the room.
Your hands scramble for a grip when they find the sides of the table, but it does nothing to steady you. Every thrust rocks you higher and drags sounds from your throat you never heard yourself make.
"Fuck, Jean—" You piece together.
"Yeah." He grits out, eyes locked on your face. "Just like that."
He bends low enough to trap your mouth in a filthy kiss, still driving in and out of you from his standing angle, until your moans spill directly into his throat.
Jean's thrusts grow rougher, until suddenly he pulls back, hands sliding under you. Before you can catch your breath, he's hauling you up.
"Jean—" You gasp his name again.
"Hold on." He counters ragged.
With a turn and a shift he sits on the side of the massage bed. His back straight, legs spread wide and cock still buried hard inside you.
He positions you over him, guiding your thighs and knees around his hips, your chest pressing against his as you straddle him.
"Ride me." He orders and braces your waist.
You sink low with one shaking movement, taking him to the base. The fill from this angle feels deeper, making your nails dig into his shoulders.
Jean's head drops between your breasts when you clench tight around him. His hands grip your ass, urging you to move.
"That's it." He breathes, eyes lifting to meet yours. "Fuck, you feel unreal."
Encouraged, you start to move, rocking your hips, riding him in a messy, desperate rhythm.
He guides you and helps you set the pace, lifting, squeezing and meeting every drop of your hips with upwards thrusts.
The sound of oiled-up skin and your mingled moans fill the room with even louder echoes.
Your foreheads brush, lips collide in sloppy kisses between gasps. The position leaves you chest to chest, with every sound, every breath becoming one and shared as you bounce on him. Your clit is dragging perfectly against the base of his cock with every movement.
Jean pulls you tighter against him, voice breaking against your mouth. "Fuck. Ride me just like that. Don't stop."
So you do. You ride him harder, the wet and obscene sound between your bodies only getting louder.
It's hardly possible to keep rhythm. It's all just a messy desperation.
His head tips back for a second, a deep moan tears out of him, but then his eyes snap to yours. And what you see is a once-composed man beneath you with a deep flush in his cheeks and wreckage written all over his face. His mouth is parted and gaze glassy with pleas.
"Fuck. Don't stop. Please." His words break apart along with his breath, hips bucking desperately up into you.
The sight of him like that is what tips you over the edge. Heat rips through you in another violent and consuming wave. Your whole body seizes as you cry out, clenching around him in repeated, quick pulses.
Jean curses and chokes on your name as he lets himself cum with a shudder that wrecks his entire body. His grip on your ass tightens almost painfully, holding you down as he pumps deep, emptying himself in erratic thrusts that help you drag out your own orgasm a little longer.
You collapse against his shoulder, he against your chest. Both of you are trembling and clinging to each other in the aftermath. His arms stay locked around you until both of your breaths finally slow.
Once the gasping, shivering and clenching has subsided and Jean has gone soft, he moves. He kisses your shoulder, before gently easing you off his lap.
He grabs a fresh towel from the shelf and presses it into your hands, his eyes stay on you as though making sure you're okay.
"You want me to do it?" He asks.
"I'm good." You start cleaning yourself up as best you can while he crosses the room to the mini fridge in the corner.
The click of the door is followed by the hiss of a bottle cap and then he's back, handing you a cold bottle of water.
You gulp it with greed as the chill and fizz runs through your overheated body.
When you're done, he helps you get off the table and gather your clothes. His fingers are careful when he helps you slip back into them.
Only once you're dressed and ready to leave, does he pull you back against his chest.
His hand lifts your chin between his thumb and index finger, guiding your face up. He leans in and presses a kiss to your lips.
"So…" His voice then comes warm, a little smug and a little tender when his eyes lock on yours. "Same time next week?"
