#jean x reader x eren

[theragethatisdesire]

eren jaeger x reader, jean kirstein x reader - drabble, 18+!!!

wrote this a few weeks ago and i'm bored so have a little drabble of a jean x reader x eren threesome from...another angle<3 sorry i've been so dry lately, have this as my official apology :)

minors do not interact. this is nsfw and intended for those 18 and up.

wc: 1.6k

warnings: degradation, p in v, fem!reader, sorta dubconny if you squint (reader's just a lil shy), voyeurism;)

-

Jean’s girl.

It has a nice ring to it, one that you’re proud of. His parents’ friends refer to you as such, always going on about how cute you look in those sundresses you wear to Sunday dinner. When you stop by the office, paper bag in hand, the boys yell out, “Jean’s girl’s back! Got any lunch in there for me, sweetheart?”. Even Jean himself is guilty, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear and whispering that he “needs to see his girl’s pretty face”.

“Look at your girl, Jean,” Eren says with a cruel, barked laugh. It’s mocking, makes your cheeks burn even hotter, if that were possible.

“I see,” Jean says quietly, the lower half of his face disappearing behind his beer as he takes a sip, “I see her.”

You squirm in Eren’s lap, trying to adjust to the foreign weight of him inside of you, wincing at the slide of your thighs on his, made easy by the wetness he’s already coaxed from your body. Jean’s eyes are dark as he watches you wriggle, one hand palming over the bulge behind his zipper, slow and steady. You really can’t believe he let you do this—let Eren do all of this, this slow unraveling of your body, this tarnishing of your pretty title. Jean’s girl, spread out on Eren’s lap with his cock shoved up into her stomach. Your head spins.

“How’s it feel, baby?” Eren’s eyes are sparkling, wide and glittering like a mountain cat lying behind a bush, when he thumbs at your chin. You know now that his teeth are as sharp as they look, the aching blossom of fresh bruises thudding along your shoulders.

“J-Jean,” you stutter out pathetically, trying to turn your head to your boyfriend. Eren’s faster, large hand wrapped around your jaw and snapping your head back to him.

“Try again.” He thrusts his hips up, not too rough, but enough that you feel it, a weak mewl falling from your lips. Eren smirks. “That’s not Jean, is it?”

“S’alright, baby,” Jean says from across the room, from too far away. Hot shame clouds your eyes in the form of tears as you realize you want him closer, but you don’t want him inside of you, not yet; you’re growing unwittingly fond of the novel stretch of Eren between your legs, your muscles tense and flexing to keep yourself from rocking forward on to him. “Be sweet to Eren.”

“Yeah,” Eren coos, dripping with condescension as he rubs his thumb through the drool on your bottom lip, “be sweet to me.”

You nod shakily, wiggling your hips again and having to bite into your lip to stop the moan from escaping, but with the way Eren’s grinning at you, you think he knows what lies in the back of your throat. Well, he does know, to an extent– your jaw still aches from him fucking into your mouth earlier, stretching your lips wide around him.

“I’m gonna ask you again,” Eren says firmly, pressing his forehead to yours, “how’s my cock feel in you, hm?”

“Feels good,” you slur quietly, barely more than a breath. It’s enough for Eren, it seems, as he groans and throws his head back. You watch his Adam’s apple bob with the throaty noise, watch the furrow appear between his dark eyebrows. He really is beautiful, breathtaking even– he reminds you of that painting, what was it called? The Fallen Angel?

Eren’s head lolls back up, his bright eyes flickering over every part of you, like he doesn’t know where he wants to start, pretty creature that you are. He trails his hands over your breasts, stopping to tweak a nipple and grinning viciously when you yelp in surprise. His fingers move further, down over your ticklish rib cage and swirling around your belly button before settling firmly on your hips. Eren looks at you like he might eat you alive if you turn your back for one second, and your stomach twists.

“It’ll feel better if you move, won’t it? Want my help?”

You look questioningly to Jean, who shakes his head no at you, and inclines it in Eren’s direction. Not me, him.

Scary isn’t the right word for Eren, not when he has so much love in his stomach, but it’s all guarded under several strips of barbed wire. Poison drips from his tongue as readily as sugarwater might; he swallows it all the same. You’re sitting atop a creature with teeth, a creature that fights when it’s cornered, but god– isn’t he so pretty?

“Yes,” you breathe out to him, twitching your hips atop his as if to emphasize your point. Eren chuckles darkly in his throat, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bite. He rolls you against him once, twice, and three times is enough to have your jaw dropping, eyes flitting up to the sky.

“There you go,” Eren grits out, swearing under his breath when you tighten around him, “told you she liked me, Jean.”

“Knew she liked you,” Jean bites back at him, huffing a little laugh when you moan in protest, in embarrassment, “just wanted to see if she’d show you.”

“She’s braver than you give her credit for.” Eren thumbs at your chin again, chokes on a groan when you suck it into your mouth, run your tongue lovingly along the pad of his finger. “Look at that…beautiful.”

He’s rolling your hips faster now, enough to force a tinny whine from you. You can feel Jean’s eyes lingering, can hear the wet schlick of his hand on his now-freed cock; you’ll ask him later what you looked like, back arched and breasts shaking to the rhythm of your own haggard breathing, rocking your hips into Eren’s like your salvation depends on it. Jean’s girl, taking his best friend’s dick while he watches. Anything for your man.

Eren’s hand wanders down your tacky stomach, starts rubbing at your swollen clit gently. It’s so raw and sensitive after nearly half an hour of Eren prodding and sucking and licking at it with his tongue, that you jolt harshly, like you’ve been electrocuted.

“Eren!”

“Good?” Eren pants, and suddenly, you’re both moving so much faster than you were before. Eren’s bullying himself up into you, hitting something that reminds you of Jean, and your tears fall faster. “Tell me how good it is.”

“It’s– fuck, so good,” you whimper, cutting yourself off with a moan. Eren hisses in satisfaction, pistoning up into you faster.

“Listen to that dirty fucking mouth,” Eren chides, abandoning your clit in favor of wrapping his hand in your tangled hair, grabbing a fistful and forcing you close to his face, “you don’t sound like Jean’s perfect little girl to me, not anymore.”

A sharp inhale from across the room reminds you of your lovely, golden boyfriend, of the cock he’s fisting watching you fall apart in Eren’s arms. It brings a rush of fresh heat to your veins, one that’s mercifully absent of shame. It’s the sparks of your orgasm, white-hot and creeping along your bones like it means to pull your head under.

“I n-need to cum, please,” you admit, whining it openly in the air for Jean to hear. His only answer is a quiet swear, the sounds of his hand growing faster and wetter. Eren laughs again, pulls your chin down to him.

“So polite, aren’t you? Give me a little something baby, wan’ a taste.” Eren tugs your mouth open with his thumb, opens his jaw expectantly. Even amidst the rhythm of you bouncing on him, you find the presence of mind to spit, a long strand of drool swaying from your lips as it falls into his mouth. Eren’s eyes flicker at you menacingly when he swallows, growls deep in his chest.

“Good girl,” Jean murmurs from across the room, “good fucking girl.”

“Hear that?” Eren says, fisting your hair harder as your walls flutter around him, betraying just how close you are to going under. “He’s so proud of you, isn’t he? Taking my cock like a fucking champ.”

“Uh-huh,” you moan pitifully, hips moving with a mind of their own. Your eyes are out of focus, but through the bleary haze of your tears and pleasure, you can make out Eren, jaw slack and eyes sharp as he watches you start to truly lose it. His fist around your hair grows so tight you squeak, and he yanks your head down to rest against his shoulder. It would be almost sweet, if he weren’t tearing you apart at the seams.

Eren’s lips, his hot breath, ghost over the shell of your ear as he whispers to you. “Bet he’ll be twice as proud if you cum all over my cock, nice and pretty for us.”

That snaps the thin thread of sanity remaining in you, and you convulse around Eren, wailing into his shoulder. He makes no effort to shush you, to pet you gently and work you through it; no, Eren only curses loudly, bites into your shoulder so hard your body jerks even as it clenches and contracts around him, shoots his hips up into you– a warmth begins filling you from the inside out, sticky and balmy against the electric aftershocks of the orgasm wracking your limbs.

Once Eren’s hips have stopped twitching up into yours, he grabs your tired body by the shoulders, shoving you to sit up properly on his softening cock. You mumble something akin to discomfort, wiggling as disobediently as you can while Eren examines you. Your muscles are still quivering with the aftereffects of cumming, though, and you aren’t able to put up much of a fight, something Eren notices and grins at.

“You’re really something, aren’t ya?” Eren says to your limp form, rubbing his hands on your shoulders. “Might have to share your girl more often, Jean.”

-

just a little snack while i battle my way through the 1500 wips i have going!! <3 love you all

[jeankirsteinsgrlfrnd]

Have you done a piece yet for jean being jealous? If not you totally should. 😋

captain jaeger and jealous jean

pairing: jean kirstein x f!reader (x eren sort of, not really)

wc: 1.8k+

tw: alcohol, inebriation, fluff, cursing, eren’s a dickhead, a little heated at the end 🤏🏻

a/n: thank you for this request! i hope you like it! also not proofread

if you’d ask him, jean would define jealousy as the deafening sound of a pulse canceling out every other noise. he’d also say he doesn’t get jealous. was he competitive? sure, but that didn’t mean he was jealous.

athletic rivals with eren, those two were always butting heads about something, anything. jean was easy to rile up and eren was a relentless tease. eren found an extreme amount of joy in raising the other boy’s blood pressure. but no, jean wasn’t jealous of eren. he hated him and that idiotic man-bun of his. the way he’d blink a certain way and some easily fooled girl would slip him her number. the way things came naturally to him. it wasn’t jealous, he’d say, it’s hatred.

y/n wasn’t the jealous type, either. there were girls prettier than her and she knew that. nothing she could do about it, so she didn’t worry. besides, she didn’t want to be the type of person to make every other girl her competition. she felt like a plain jane and she was contempt with it, oddly enough. she attracted just enough attention to feel pretty every now and then.

so when eren jaeger, the gorgeous captain of the baseball team, chose to talk to her at his house party, she felt divine. she felt seen.

*************

typical pop music flooded the house, drowning out any sentences that would normally otherwise be coherent. eren jaeger’s living room was flooded with girls in tight clothes and boys who were just a little too sweaty. it was cramped, almost making you feel claustrophobic.

you’d never been to a party before. at least, not the one’s you’d seen on the television. the type where people were passed out in random spots, where the scent of booze lingered heavily, where there were people making out upstairs in the bedrooms. this party certainly exceeded your expectations, despite it still being early on the night.

you’re not quite sure why you’re here. your friend, mikasa, had invited you earlier on in the day. she said that eren had wanted you to come. and with her being his childhood best friend, you believed her. mikasa and you weren’t exactly besties or anything of the sorts, but she was more than an acquaintance.

there you were, standing in the middle of the most popular boy’s living room, dazed and alone. an overwhelming desire to become a wallflower strikes you. fighting the battle of a lifetime, you swat away your urge to be antisocial and head to the kitchen where the drinks are sure to be plenty.

the kitchen is only slightly less crowded than the previous room. a group of people are huddled around the kitchen island. fortunately, you identify mikasa by her jet black wolf cut.

“hey, mikasa.” you shout to upstage the music.

mikasa spins around, revealing a red solo cup in her right hand. ‘mik’ is written sloppily on it in black sharpie. her eyes, with no less than half a pound of eyeliner on them, skim you up and down. as you start to worry about your outfit choices, she smiles.

“y/n, you came,” she starts, “you look cute.” mikasa compliments as she wraps her arms around you.

there’s no chance for you to respond with an attempt of feigning your belonging because eren is breaking away from his spot at the counter. he stands at a crisp six foot one, towering over both mikasa and you. like everyone else at the party, eren is sporting a red cup, holding it by it’s brim. ‘captain’ is written messily on it, along with the number ‘17.’

a few pieces of his dark hair frame his face. wonderous green eyes that search yours. a chiseled jaw you imagine slicing your finger open on.

oh, just looking at him you could bleed.

“hey. what’re you drinking?” he asks, tilting his head down.

casual. his words are casual. like it isn’t your first time truly holding a conversation with him.

“anything, i don’t really…” you trail off as your eyes flicker between his.

this makes eren smile. he throws up one finger on his left hand, signaling you to allow him a moment to find something he finds suitable for you. he rummages through the fridge and pulls out a red wine cooler.

“this good?” he asks, raising it in the air.

“yes,” you yell back whilst nodding your head.

eren comes back as mikasa gives you a look. she tilts her head up and shakes it at her friend before leaning back onto the counter, rejoining her previous conversation.

he stands before you, extending the hand that holds your drink. just as you go to grab it, he raises it so that you can’t reach it. a smile is painted across his face, revealing bright white teeth.

you blush.

“you can have it,” he cocks his head to the side, “after you do a shot with me and my friends. i’ll even let you use it as a chaser.”

your brain has gone completely fuzzy. eren jaeger invited you to his party, gets a drink just for you, and is now peerpressuing you to indulge in bad decisions.

“okay,” you blink. “i can do that.”

he grins and to your surprise, he throws an arm over your shoulder. “thatta girl,” he says, just low enough for you to hear.

eren weasels you two between sasha and mikasa, the ponytailed girl at your side. she pays no mind to your intrusion and instead offers a smile.

“listen, you delinquents,” eren interrupts them. “we are going to do a shot in honor of my pending status of captain.”

“you are so arrogant, jaeger,” a man scoffs.

across the counter, a messy dirty blonde mullet sits on top of a beautiful, angry face. his forearms rest on the granite as his body leans forward, eyes set directly on the man with his arm around your shoulder.

“oh, jean,” eren coos. “you can’t always get what you want.”

grabbing the malibu bottle by it’s neck, jean laughs. “you haven’t gotten anything yet,” his hazel flickers briefly to yours. “we won’t know until tomorrow.”

the way he talks makes a pit form in your stomach. you’re a smart girl, you know what they’re alluding to. it’s you.

“i guess you’re right. but i’m pretty much guaranteed to score,” eren tightens the bun on the back of his head.

“here,” jean slids you a shot glass. it reeks of coconut.

“you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to,” sasha says. “they’re a bunch of dorks.”

“no, it’s fine,” you shake your head as your fingers wrap around the clear glass. the liquid inside is taunting you.

“eren just wants to get you drunk,” jean says nonchalantly just as the cold glass touches your bottom lip.

“i know,” you respond.

it burns. coconut flavor isn’t strong enough to mask the burning left on your tongue. you can feel it light your esophagus on fire as it travels down, settling in the depths of your stomach.

“i’m going to kill you, kirstein.” eren’s voice raises a few notches as he drops his arms from your shoulder.

jean just laughs. he’s not laughing at eren though, he’s laughing at you.

“what’s so fucking funny?” eren hisses.

“she’s too smart for you,” jean shrugs his shoulders.

“are you too smart for me, (y/n)?” eren asks teasingly, looking down at you.

“i just think that you can’t always get what you want.” you blink your eyes lashes at him a few times before grabbing your bottle out of his hands. he looks dumbfounded as you head towards the living room, leaving him with the sounds of sasha and jean laughing at him.

your feelings are hurt, there’s no denying that. you had felt special and now you know you were just going to be a notch on his belt.

after a few drinks, you find yourself back in the kitchen. this time, there’s no crowd of people in here. just half-filled cups and bottles. faint sounds of terrible karaoke are heard.

you’re standing in front of the faucet, staring out the window, watching people do keg stands. eren’s out there egging them on.

“don’t make me take back what i said.”

“about eren?” you ask, turning around to see jean. he’s drunker, too.

he walks around the island, eventually leaning his back against it as he positions himself in front of you.

“about being too smart. you’re still thinking about him, aren’t you?”

“no,” you sigh. “how did you know he just wanted to fuck me?”

“because that selfish prick can’t let me have anything for myself,” he growls. his grip on his cup tightens. it slightly indents under his pressure. “he just wanted to piss me off. i should fucking kill him.”

“what are you talking about?”

“c’mon,” he sets his cup down. jean pushes himself off the counter and leaves mere inches between the two of you. his forehead is hovering above yours. the warmth of his breath makes the hairs on your neck stand up.

“jean,” you whisper. you’ve never been so still in your life. afraid whatever this is might die, you hold your breath.

“you’re smart, (y/n), too damn smart,” he purrs. “use that brain of yours.”

the vibration in his dialect makes your heart race.

“i don’t understand why you keep calling me that,” your lips part.

jean’s fingers find yours. his brush gently along them, leaving a wake of goosebumps. “you knew what eren wanted but you still chose to get drunk. you got drunk and didn’t sleep with him, just to piss him off. i’m starting to think i might be a part of that plan. you want to make him jealous?”

you swallow the lump in your throat. chest heaving with butterflies, you nod.

“good,” jean replies. the space between your foreheads close. his skin is burning hot, warming your entire body. “because he was making me so fucking jealous,” he draws a finger along your jaw and stops at your chin, “dirty fucker had his hands on you.”

“jean,” it’s the only word you can speak. everything else is forgotten.

“i’ve wanted you for so long. do you know what that’s like?” he waits for you to shake your head before he continues, “maddening. and eren knew all about it.”

“why didn’t you say anything?”

“just wanted it to be perfect,” he whispers, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “and now it is, hmm? i get to piss him off by doing this.”

jean’s thumb and pointer finger center your chin as he draws in closer to you. without hesitation, your lips open slightly as his meet yours. they’re softer than you expected. it’s electric. warm hands snake around your waist, pulling you away from the counter. your brain is scrambled, all parts of you lost in jean.

he pulls back for a second, rubbing a thumb along your side. “can’t believe i let jaeger work me up this much,” he kisses your right cheek. “never been this fuckin’ jealous,” he kisses your left cheek.

“i can’t believe you’re jealous…because of me.”

“especially because of you.”

read my jean fic here

[crazychaoticizzy]

TRACK 3: Tennessee

Y/n L/n—an indie artist that became the leading female vocalist of the famous band Heart Attack. How did someone with such a soft sound come to join the rock band anyway?

EREN X READER X JEAN

CONTENT: multipart fic, rock band au, slow burn, love triangle, angst, substance abuse, toxic relationship, if I missed anything let me know!

WORD COUNT: 10.6k

series masterlist

AOT masterlist

<< previous part

Y/N: I should probably start at the beginning, right? Well, I truly fell in love with music when I was little. My mother, Alice Kraney, gave me that love. Crazy as she was. She would always come back from sets humming the tune to whatever song had been playing. She’d let me make up lyrics, even if they were wrong.

That was before she . . . got carried away with everything. Before the heroine and ecstasy got to her. She fought a lot with my dad because of it. They eventually got divorced, and my dad won custody of me in court. The jury said Mom was too unstable to raise me. My dad was gracious, though. More than he should have been. He got me in New York during the school year, and when summer came around he let me go to my mom’s if I wanted.

It shouldn’t have shocked you that Alice Kraney’s house reeked of marijuana and various other substances. Some part of you always had a sliver of hope that she’d decided to change herself during the school year. She never did.

You nearly threw up walking through the front door. It was a mess. You didn’t like being at her small townhouse in the middle of Fuck-Shit-Nowhere, Tennessee, but you still liked your mom. The delusional side of you always assumed she’d stop for you.

She never did. She never did anything.

You stepped over a pile of mail and held your suitcase and bags just above the floor. It was meant to be wooden, but it was covered in so much grime you couldn’t really tell.

Jesus, did it really get that bad in ten months?

Alice wasn’t home. You knew that because the door was unlocked. She never locked the door when she went out, even while she was with your father.

You carefully maneuvered your way across the living room and down the hall. You spotted a couple needles and orange caps on the floor, and reminded yourself to always wear shoes and never sit on cushions in Alice’s house.

The only clean room in her house was yours. Alice never touched it. She hardly even knocked on the door when you were there. Did she even know you were there?

It didn’t smell great in your room either. The fumes from the rest of the house had bled through the vents and made the space stink. You made another note to buy a shit ton of Febreeze and those wallflower things from Bath and Body Works.

You set your bag aside and sat on your bed, heaving a sigh. At least your room was drug free. That was something you took pride in.

Your phone buzzed. You looked down at the screen. You smiled at the Instagram DM from a guy you had been talking to. Damian — a guy from California that had complimented your music.

Your fingers glided across the keyboard as you orchestrated the perfect response. It wasn’t moments later that you held the phone up to your ear.

“Hello?” you said. Your voice was pitched higher on purpose, and you tried your best to cover the Brooklyn accent you had.

“Hey, pretty girl,” Damian said. You swooned. How easy it was to romance you. “Haven’t talked to you in a bit.”

“It’s only been a day,” you giggled. You stood up. There were still things you had to unpack from your car.

“A day too long.” You rolled your eyes. “So what are you up to?”

“Oh, you know. I just got to my mom’s. It’s a mess, as usual.”

You heard Damian exhale — one of the ones that sounded as though he were daydreaming. “I still can’t believe I managed to catch the attention of Alice Kraney’s daughter.”

You laughed again, poised and perfect. “Well it isn’t hard.”

“Not for me, anyway.” A moment of silence passed as you pulled your guitar out of your trunk and began your second trip through the house. “Say, pretty girl” — God, your heart fluttered when he called you that — “d’you pack that special gift?”

You scoffed playfully. “Damian.”

“I’m only asking. Maybe we could have some fun.”

You smiled. Damian couldn’t see it, but he knew he had enticed you. “My dad wouldn’t approve,” you said, but it would take nothing more than a flick for you to crumble and give in.

“Daddy’s not around, is he, pretty girl?” You rolled your eyes, but already you were digging around in your suitcase to comply. “C’mon, babe. Hop on FaceTime and we can have fun.”

“Okay, okay. I’m looking.”

“Atta girl.”

Damian’s photo appeared on your phone before you knew it, and it wasn’t long until you were complying with his every wish.

—

Y/N: When I tell people about Damian, they tell me I was weak and naïve. Someone even called me stupid when I was on a press tour with Heart Attack. They say I should have known better. But I was not weak or naïve or stupid. I was a baby. I wanted someone to care about me the way he said he did.

I regret everything having to do with Damian with my whole heart. Even the songs that got me where I am. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to take all of that back.

“I wrote you a song.”

You were on the phone with Damian again. Your phone was propped up against one of your pillows and you listened to his voice with headphones.

“A song? Isn’t it a bit early for that, pretty girl?”

You shrugged, standing from your end to retrieve your guitar. When you settled back on your bed, you strummed the strings lightly. “Maybe. But I wanted to write one for you. Can you hear the guitar?”

“Yeah, yeah. I can hear it.” You could hear the reluctance in Damian’s tone, but you ignored it. “Alright then, show me what you made.”

You smiled, looking down at the neck of your guitar to make sure you had the right fingerings with each note change.

That smile didn’t leave your lips as you sang. The guitar rhythm was soft, your voice even softer. Candied and light, your voice carried through the house.

As you strummed the final chord, you looked at Damian expectantly, eagerly awaiting his feedback. When he didn’t say anything, you cleared your throat.

“Did you like it?”

Damian didn’t respond for a moment again. But he eventually clicked his tongue and furrowed his brows.

“It was . . . Something.”

You felt your heart crack. Your vibrant smile faded ever so slightly, but you tried to keep it.

“I thought you liked my music.” That’s why he had contacted you in the first place. He had come across a clip of you singing a snippet from a song you’d written. He told you he loved your voice and the way you played.

Damian shrugged. “No, I do. I do. It just- It was just okay. I know you wanna be the next Historia Reiss influencer or whatever, but don’t you think that’s a bit silly?”

Your smile faced completely. You let your posture sag. “What do you mean?”

“I just mean that, you know, not everyone makes it. Not unless they’re pretty and talented, and you just don’t quite hit that mark.”

You blinked at him in silence, the gears in your head working overtime to fully dissect Damian’s words. You were trying to piece together the contradictions of what he just said and the things he told you before.

“Plus, like, we’re just casual. This is just a casual thing, you and I. You don’t need to write a whole song.”

You nodded. “Right.”

But your gaze flitted over to the notebook on your desk — the one filled to the brim with pretty words describing the way Damian made you feel. You had planned to flesh them out into full songs for him, but now you weren’t sure.

An uncomfortable silence had enveloped the room. The air was so thick it was suffocating you, pushing down in your chest and weighing heavily on your shoulders.

“Yeah, you’re right,” you said, clearing your throat. You could feel your eyes burning with tears. “Uhm, I have to go.”

Damian groaned as you grabbed your phone. “Pretty girl, I didn’t mean it like that-”

You hung up before he finished and tossed your phone as far away from you on your bed as you could. You held your legs to your chest like a damn toddler and took a deep breath, pressing your forehead against your knees.

You heard a knock on your door. You lifted your head and sniffed, wiping your cheeks to clean any stray tears. “Come in,” you called out, your voice cracking.

Your door creaked open. On the other side stood your mother. She looked like she was about to go out and throw herself onto the first man that looked at her. Her fried hair was straightened and she wore shorts that could hardly be classified as such.

“Hey,” is all she said. Her voice was hoarse. “Was that music you?”

You softly nodded. You couldn’t tell if Alice was high. You hoped she was, at least a little. That way she wouldn’t pay your dried tears any mind.

Alice hummed. “It was nice. Pretty.”

“Thanks,” you dryly said.

Alice bit the inside of her cheek. She stood awkwardly in your doorway for a moment before clicking her tongue. Her lips curled up, revealing the circular gap in her front two teeth. “Smile, babe,” she said, pointing at the apples of her cheeks.

You hummed, unamused, as Alice closed your bedroom door.

You didn’t know whether to take her compliment or not. She was a druggie, but before that she was just a street away from Broadway and was a riding actor nearly everyone knew the name of. If she said you sounded good, did she really mean it?

You pushed her words to the back of your mind and put your guitar away. You laid in bed and stared at the ceiling for what seemed like hours before you heard the front door open and your mom stumbled into the house. She was giggling, and you heard another voice with her.

You reached for the headphones on your nightstand and put them over your ears. You put them at the highest volume before pushing play on a playlist your friend had made for you.

Why you were always so sure you wanted to spend every summer with Alice, you didn’t know. But every year without fail, you find yourself wishing you hadn’t come.

—

The start of the school year was always stressful. You hated driving, and the trip back to your dad’s Brooklyn apartment was going to beat your ass.

Not to mention that you always managed to arrive home later than anticipated. You weren’t sure what it was, but last year you arrived a whole day late and missed the first day of school. And you still had to go get school supplies. And repack your bags.

Instead of doing any of that, you were tucked under the blankets of your bed, watching one of your mom’s old movies. One from her early twenties.

She really was a good actress. Her expressions were spot on no matter what and she was always able to adapt to her co-stars choices easily. The movie you were watching was an indie film called Esperanza’s Dog. It won an award once, though you don’t know what for.

It was probably one of your favorite films. Not just because seeing your mom play the main character, Esperanza, but because the movie was so beautifully shot and written. It always made you cry. Your dad had also worked on the film. That’s where he met Alice.

You were so engrossed in the movie that you didn’t even notice Alice push your door open and come in. You only knew she was there when she sat down on the edge of your bed with you. She looked more out together than usual (though there were still dark rings around her eyes and her hair was a mess), and her clothing was more modest that what you had seen her wear.

“Whatcha watching?” she asked, even though her eyes were already glued to your computer screen. You knew she could recognize the movie. You knew she recognized the work your dad did.

“Esperanza's Dog,” you quietly replied. You pulled the blankets tighter against you, watching as Alice’s lips curled up the smallest bit.

“You know, that was my favorite to film.” She wasn’t high. Or drunk, or intoxicated in any way. You wondered what the occasion was.

“Is it because of dad?”

Alice laughed and leaned back on her arms. “Part of it. But no, it was just fun. It’s a nice movie and Kasey Mulls is a really good director. She’s working with Hollywood now, you know.”

“What studio?”

“Oh, who knows. But her new movie went up for tons of awards this year.” You hummed, and that was the end of the conversation. An uncomfortable silence wrapped itself around you, and you kept your eyes glued to the screen in an attempt to not start another talk.

Your mother, however, did the opposite. Her gaze flitted around your room, analyzing every aspect of it from your open windows to the paper wisteria that was hanging in all corners of the room. She eventually landed on your guitar case, which was open.

“Will you play something for me?” she asked. Her voice was hopeful, and you saw a glint of the same thing in her eyes when you met her gaze.

You stared at her. For a moment, you could see the twenty-something year old that was currently on your screen, sharing a romantic moment with one of the love interests.

It almost pained you to see. You knew the woman on the screen was your mom, but it was such a far cry from who she was today that it was almost impossible to see the connection. You had seen many articles and Redditor’s and Tumblr users and Instagram reels that tracked the timeline of Alice Kraney’s downfall, and in every one there was no clear path that landed her as a blacklisted druggie.

“I don’t really have anything,” you said, turning back to the movie.

“Sure you do. What was that song you sang earlier? About here?”

Your heart clenched. So much it hurt. You remembered her asking about it when you first sang it in full, but you didn’t think she would. You had hoped that she was too involved with herself that day so she wouldn’t remember it.

But of course she did. Because if she heard you singing the song, then she heard you talking to a boy — to Damian. If she heard the song, then she heard the exact moment your heart cracked and reality dawned on you. If she heard the song, then she also heard who it was about.

“It’s not very good,” you said.

“Yeah it is! It’s a great song. I think it would do wonders on radio. Maybe even a movie? Hey, I could probably call someone and see if-”

“Mom.” Alice quieted, looking at you curiously as you sat up. “It’s fine. It’s not- I don’t really want to get into show business.”

“Really?” You nodded. “Since when?”

You shrugged. “I’ve just been thinking about it. It’s really hard to break through and stay relevant. Anyone can be a one-hit wonder, but if I want to be able to do this for a living then I have to be able to be… seen.”

What Damian said to you had sent you down a spiral. Okay, maybe you weren’t as pretty as other celebrities or a nepobaby like Historia Reiss. That was fine, but if you weren’t pretty then why would people pay attention to you?

“I just think it’s more realistic to get a real job.” You shrugged again. It felt like you were lying through your teeth. You really did want that. You wanted the life celebrities lived even if it was nasty and drama-filled. You wanted to be seen and to write songs that other people could relate to.

Alice was silent for a moment. You could see your words turning in her mind.

“Even if you don’t make it, you can still do it,” she stated. “It can be a side hustle.”

“Mom—”

“You are talented. You have a beautiful voice and know how to play a guitar—”

“I really don’t think—”

“Listen to me.” Alice grabbed your hand. “You are nearly seventeen. If this is what you want to do, then start now. The industry gets so much more competitive when you’re an adult than when you’re a teenager. You have the talent and sound to make it big, you just have to try. No one’s going to know who you are if you don’t put yourself out there.”

You exhaled, your back curving into a slump. Even if your mom wasn’t a very strong fighter, she got stubborn when she thought something would work out with her whole heart.

“Now, play me a song. Please? I want to hear it.”

You folded. Mostly because your mom rarely paid attention to you and now she wanted you to do something for her. That, and she wasn’t high out of her mind like she usually was. This was something she would remember.

You paused your movie and closed your laptop, reluctantly sliding out of bed and crossing the room to your guitar case. You pick it up, lifting the strap over your head and strumming the strings to make sure they were in tune. You pulled your rolley chair out from its spot at your desk and turned it with your foot, sitting down.

You met Alice’s gaze. She was sitting straight — attentively. She gave you a soft smile and thumbs up. When you strummed your guitar and started singing, you were reminded why you loved it.

—

EREN: Marco’s death put a damper on everyone’s mood. You have to go really far back on the Heart Attack socials, but if you look at the dates you see almost a year where nothing new was posted.

CONNIE: Erwin threatened to cut our deal with Scout Records if we didn’t quit moping. We needed to provide something for the studio to produce if we wanted to stay. We used one of Marco’s old keyboard tracks and made “Holiday”.

JEAN: “Holiday” found itself on TikTok pretty fast. People liked the sound. They liked rock music. I was grateful, I guess. But… Marco wasn’t there. And if he wasn’t, then why was I?

“Eren, you fucking idiot.”

Jean crumpled the paper in his hand, a noise that was louder than it should have been due to the silence in the room as everyone looked over their music.

“What the fuck is this?” Jean strode across the studio to Eren and shoved the crumpled paper into his chest. Eren let go out the microphone and grabbed the paper before it fell to the floor and unfolded it.

“It’s your music.”

“Well no shit. I mean why is it changed?”

“Then maybe you should have said that instead of what the fuck is this.” Eren mocked. He looked back down at the sheet of music. “What song is this?”

“Boulevard of Broken Dreams,” Jean snapped. Maybe he was irrationally angry, but that was his song. He wrote it. Every part of it. Why was Eren changing it?

“Oh.” Eren hands him the paper back. “Your backtrack with the bass sounded off. It didn’t line up with everything else.”

“That was the point! It’s supposed to be discordant to disconnect the listener. It gives the song meaning, Eren.”

“We aren’t trying to disconnect the listener, Jean! If the listener feels disconnected then why would they listen to more of our music?”

“This is my song, idiot. You can’t—”

“Stop arguing.” The voice was loud over the intercom. It was something the band still wasn’t used to.

Everyone’s head snapped to the pane of glass that separated the studio to the control room. They could vaguely see their reflections in the glass, but beyond those they were met with Erwin’s stern stare and Levi’s disapproving glance.

“Nothing will get done if the two of you keep picking on each other. Jean, I told Eren to change the song. Now sit down and start figuring it out.”

Jean huffed, sparing a glance at Eren before he snatched the crumpled paper out of Eren’s hand and retreated to his stool.

He knew Levi was lying, but no one talked back to Levi Ackerman and stayed where they were.

Eren was humming the tune of the song. He was humming it wrong, which meant he would sing it wrong. If they were in their apartment, then Jean would have stood up and corrected him. He would have stood up and fought back until he got his way, but since they were in a professional studio, he refrained.

When everyone felt they had a feel for their parts, they gathered together and Erwin played Marco’s backtrack through the speakers around them. The first run through was messy — everyone was figuring out where their parts fit into the rest of the music — but they figured it out eventually.

And when they finally got everything together after nearly a week of workshopping the song, “Holiday” became Heart Attack’s first song to reach the top of the charts.

—

Y/N: Junior year was . . . An experience. It was definitely a lot. I also had a bunch of situationships and . . . problems . Probably the worst year of my school career. The last, too, but I like to pretend I completed high school.

It wasn’t really a good year for me, but it was a good year for my music. I started focusing on that, maybe a bit more than I should have, and I got my name on the map. Sure, I might not have been recruited by any talent scouts or however that works, but I had built my own little following.

Your dad didn’t know you were out.

As far as he knew, you had locked yourself in your room, listening to a playlist that included Ritchie Valens, Leslie Gore, and Paul Anka through your speaker as you worked on an English project with your partner.

He wouldn’t suspect that you were gone, because on top of the soft music was talking. Your friend Jazelle (who you affectionately called Jazzy) had snuck into your room earlier. She would replace you in your room for the night, and she would be on the phone with her boyfriend to make it seem like she was working with someone else.

It was perfect, really. You had called in a favor that another friend of yours, Ella, owed you and managed to find yourself performing a gig in her uncle’s small blue’s bar. You had dressed yourself in a lilac dress that reached just above your knees and cowboy boots. Your hair was pinned out of your face and soon enough you would be on a stage, singing and playing a guitar for a small audience and your dad would be none the wiser.

Jazzy’s boyfriend, Dallas, was with you. He had decided to tag along since Jazzy wanted to watch you perform, but had been given the job of filling in for you at home. The two of them would be on FaceTime so she could watch you.

“How are you feeling?” Jazzy asked, dragging out the last word with an excited tone. There was an infectious smile on her face, and the sight of it made you feel calmer.

“I’m kind of scared.” Dallas’s phone was big, so you had set it against a ledge backstage so you didn’t have to hold it. “I think Dallas said he was getting me water to calm me down, but I don’t understand how that’s going to help?”

“It has something to do with your nervous system, I think. I don’t know, he’s explained it to me before but I don’t remember.” Jazzy readjusted her phone. You assumed it was resting against her laptop screen since she had started typing. “But you’re gonna do great! Your songs are good and I think you’ll find the right audience in the kind of bar you’re in.”

“Hopefully.” You turned your head at the sound of footsteps, holding your hand out when you saw Dallas walking toward you with a plastic water bottle. You immediately opened it and took a long drink.

“Oh, my God, I’m so nervous,” you said once you had lowered the bottle from your lips. “What if I pass out on the stage? Or a light falls on me and I die? Or I just like . . . die, or something.”

“Y/n, you’re so dramatic,” Jazzy said. “You’re going to be fine.”

“Besides, the lights for the stage are so far out there is no way they would fall on you,” Dallas added.

“Well maybe they’ll walk over to me before they decide to fall on my face.”

“They’re inanimate. How would they—”

“Miss Kraney?” You turned your head. Standing at the end of the hall, just a few strides from you, was one of the guys that had led you backstage. It was one of Ella’s cousins, though you didn’t remember his name. “Are you ready to go on?”

You nodded in response quicker than you intended. Were you really ready?

The answer was no. This was the first crowd (no matter how small it was) that you had ever played for. You didn’t think anything would ever be able to prepare you for something like this.

You grabbed your guitar and followed Ella’s cousin just outside the door that led to the small stage. You waited until the previous singer stepped off to follow him and sit at the stool left behind.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Y/n Kraney.”

You smiled, adjusting your patterned guitar strap around your shoulder. You had taken the name Kraney because it was recognizable. So many people knew Alice Kraney — the promising young actress that had fallen off the deep end who knows how long ago. People would recognize the name and, hopefully, connect you as her daughter.

You hoped they thought you would have that same potential Alice did.

You waited until Ella’s cousin adjusted the mic to your height before smiling. You quietly thanked him before leaning into the microphone.

“Hi, everyone.” You didn’t know what you were supposed to do. Your heart was pounding in your throat and your blood was rushing in your ears. You started to mindlessly pluck different notes on your guitar, hoping to alleviate the thick atmosphere. “Has anyone ever heard my music?”

That was a dumb question. Who would have? Was anyone even paying attention to you? You thought it over later that night and realized you were just supposed to be background noise for the people trying to relieve any stress from their days.

You got one singular whoop! in response to your question. Even though the one person was embarrassing, it provided the evidence you needed that you were making your breakthrough, even if it was only to one person.

“We’ll, for those of you that have never heard me before, I hope you enjoy.”

—

HANGE ZOË, producer for Heart Attack: The first time I heard Y/n sing was in New York. I was visiting a friend to discuss a film he wanted me to make music for, and I found myself in the same bar as her. The only thing I could think when I heard her voice was wow. I mean, I couldn’t believe she had the kind of talent she did and she wasn’t even eighteen yet.

ERWIN SMITH, owner of Scout Records: I remember Hange video calling me at five in the morning. Though, I suppose with the time difference it would have been late at night for them. I had just woken up and was still processing that fact when they told me, “Erwin, I’ve found our next star.”

Hange flipped their phone camera, ignoring Erwin’s rant about how early it was in Germany, to show a clear view of you on the stage.

Your voice rang out like a bell, soft and melodic as you strummed your guitar. You sang a song that Hange later learned was called “Fragile,” one that you had written about one of your exes. They found themselves wondering what the song would sound like in a different setting—not on your acoustic guitar.

“What’s her name?” Erwin asked as you wrapped up the song.

“Y/n Kraney,” Hange replied.

Erwin’s brows furrowed. “Kraney as in Alice Kraney?”

“They certainly have a strong resemblance.”

“Wow.” Erwin blew out a breath and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “I haven’t heard that name in a long time. We worked on a movie together once.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Alice was nice to work with.” Erwin went silent as the sound of your voice filled the air, this time a cover of “Donna” by Ritchie Valens gracing his ear. “I want you to recruit her. Offer whatever it takes.”

“Actually?” Erwin nodded, making Hange click their tongue. “That’ll be hard, Erwin. I’m pretty sure she lives here.”

“You’re the one that told me you found a star.”

Hange scoffed and rolled their eyes. “Yeah, but it was more like a what if we consider this sort of sound instead, you know?”

Erwin deadpanned. He knew that obviously wasn’t true, but it was clear he was still exhausted. The faint circles beneath his eyes became more prominent with each night that passed. “Sure. Do whatever it takes to get her to sign with us.”

“Like I said, I can try. But I make no promises. We’re stationed in Germany.”

“Then tell her we’ll buy her a place here. An apartment, a penthouse — whatever she wants. I want her with my company.”

Hange saluted. “Yes, sir. Whatever you want, big boss man.”

Erwin exhaled. He hated when Hange called him that. “Have a good night.”

And then he hung up. Hange scoffed once more before cursing at him under their breath. They tucked their phone back into their pocket and returned their attention to you.

Hange’s leg bounced. They were waiting until you finished and walked backstage to go there themselves and talk to you.

The moment your fingers strummed the last chord and you smiled, sugared words thanking everyone for listening falling from your lips, Hange was out of their chair and beelining toward the back.

They made it before you did. They waited for you to arrive down the hall impatiently, their foot still tapping against the floor.

You walked down the hall with your guitar case in tow. You shot Hange a brief smile before walking past them, but the sound of their voice interrupted you.

“Y/n Kraney, correct?”

You paused, turning to them and nodding. “Yes. Can I help you?”

Hange took note of your thick accent (one that you didn’t have when speaking on stage or while singing), but they smiled widely and held out their hand. “Hange Zoë. I’m a producer for Scout Records.”

Now they had your interest. You turned your entire body to face them and grabbed their hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine.” Hange dropped their hand, tucking both of them into the pockets of their blazer. “You have talent.”

“Thank you.” You lowered your head briefly to show your appreciation.

“Have you thought about where you’re wanting to go with this? If you wanna make it a career or keep it as a hobby?”

You nodded. “I’ve been striving to make this my job. Though, I haven’t been very successful.” You force a laugh, though it’s obviously strained.

“Well of course. It’s hard to break through in an industry with so many people.” You nodded. “Have you thought about signing with a label?”

Your eyes slightly widen. You figured that’s where this was going, but you hadn't wanted to get your hopes up.

“Yes.”

Hange smiled. They pulled out a card from their blazer and handed it to you. You took it from their hand, absolutely gobsmacked that this opportunity was, quite literally, just being handed to you. It had to be too good to be true.

You were about to accept then and there. You had opened your mouth to say that yes, of course you’d sign with their company. But when you looked down at the card in your hand and scanned over both the address and phone numbers listed, you faltered.

“In . . . Germany?”

“Yes, dear. In Germany.”

“Oh . . .”

You didn’t know what to say. You had jinxed yourself because it really was too good to be true. Of course when the perfect opportunity arises, there has to be a weird, exigent circumstance that prevents you from reaching your dreams.

You had been so close.

“I don’t think I can do that,” you said. You met Hange’s gaze again.

“Why not? Is it living arrangements? I can assure you that the label will—”

“No. No, it’s- It’s not that.”

Hange’s brow raised in curiosity. “What is it then?”

“Just . . . Germany is so far. My parents are here in America and- God, not to mention school.”

Hange was taken aback. They blinked, speechless. School?

“How old are you?”

“I just turned seventeen,” you replied, rather bashfully.

Hange hummed, running their hand over the bottom half of their face in thought. Your youth definitely caused a problem.

“And you’re in eleventh grade? Or twelfth?”

“Eleventh.”

Hange exhaled a silent curse.

You bit the inside of your cheek, feeling the new tension building as Hange thought.

“Alright.” Hange exhaled again, holding out one of their hands to motion to you. “The offer still stands and will so long as you take this seriously. If you want to move to Germany and join Scout Records, then we will take care of everything you need.”

You nodded, even knowing that you’d never accept the offer. You needed to stay in America. It’s where everything you’d ever known was.

Hange’s gaze softened. They reached forward and gently grabbed your shoulder. “You are very talented, Y/n. Even if you don’t join our company, I hope you find yourself doing great things.”

“Thank you.” 

“If you change your mind, just call one of these numbers. We’ll get you situated.” Hange tapped the card in your hand before letting you go. You stood in the same spot as they stepped around you and left, the door closing loudly behind them.

You couldn’t believe you had to miss out on the chance of a lifetime just because of where you would have to go.

—

“We need to find a keyboardist.”

Armin’s voice cut through the silence of the apartment. It was early in the morning, and Jean was the only one in the shared living and dining space that would pay attention, since Mikasa was on her phone and listening to music through big headphones.

“Why? What’s wrong with playing the tracks?” Jean asked. He had been outlining something in his notebook, but he promptly set his pen on the pages when Armin spoke.

“It just- It doesn’t sound right. It doesn’t sound natural when we play with it.”

“What does that mean?”

“It sounds like a backtrack.” Explaining it almost made Armin feel stupid, because it was a backtrack so of course it would sound like one. “It just doesn’t blend well when we do live music. It needs to sound like live music when we do gigs. Plus, when we get bigger and start doing tours—”

“You think we’re going to get bigger?” Jean tone was condescending, and Armin flinched back like he had been burned.

Jean hated that he did that. He always showed the worst of him when he was upset or sad or . . . not happy. He had tried working on it before, but to no avail.

“Jean, our song is number five on the charts right now. People are starting to notice us.”

“We’re probably going to be a one hit wonder. Holiday got the attention, but what about The Bends? Or Boulevard of Broken Dreams? Or any of the samples we’ve put out on Instagram? No one pays attention to those.”

“Well we won’t know that if we don’t take this seriously,” Mikasa added. She had paused her music when Armin started talking. When Jean turned her way, her gaze was piercing. “Armin has a point, Jean. Playing the keyboard tracks when we do live music isn’t gonna work for long because it’s at a different volume than what you are playing. It doesn’t match the energy either.”

He let out an exasperated exhale, but reluctantly listened as Mikasa continued to ramble about coherence and continuity in their music.

“And where do you propose we find a keyboardist? We can’t just go out and magically find one.”

Jean found himself eating his words later that day as he marveled at the brunette tapping the keys of her well loved keyboard in a park. Mikasa had dragged him outside and had driven around aimlessly for what had seemed like hours in hopes of finding a street performer that could play the piano.

And dammit did she find a good one. The brunette pressed the keys like she was playing in a bar and sang with a similar twang to American country stars, but she was good. Her fingers slid across the keys like she was on a mission. Every note seemed to have meaning when she played it, and Jean was in awe.

“So today we learned that we can just go out and find a keyboardist,” Mikasa said cheekily. She turned to Jean, a smug grin painted across her face.

Jean scoffed. “You got lucky.”

“The point is, if you look, you’ll find something.” Mikasa turned her attention back to the brunette, watching as she smiled widely and thanked a child who offered her a half-empty bag of jerky and two euros.

“She doesn’t play what we do.” There he went again. Criticizing whatever he could. The girl probably could play some sort of rock sounding medley, but Jean was too stuck up on Marco to even want to find out if she could.

“Well, that’s why we ask if she can.” Mikasa spared Jean a sidelong glance as the girl began another song. “We won’t find out if we don’t try.”

That was basically the same thing she had said earlier. Mikasa was all about taking chances, Jean had noticed. She was always on the lookout for the next big thing and had become bolder since becoming Heart Attack’s publicist and social media manager.

Jean mumbled some sort of offhanded reply before going silent. He listened to the girl’s music, but it seemed like she had reached the end of her performance because less than ten minutes later, she was thanking everyone around her and disconnecting her keyboard from the two speakers.

Mikasa took the opportunity. Jean watched as she approached the woman when everyone else dispersed. He reluctantly stepped closer, not wanting to seem like a creep to others.

“Good afternoon, I’m Mikasa Ackerman.” Mikasa really had gotten bolder since becoming a publicist. The pre-Berlin Mikasa never would have walked up to a total stranger of her own volition and confidently introduced herself like she was somebody to know.

The brunette glanced up from where she worked to wind up a cord, smiling at the sight of Mikasa. “Sasha. Nice to meet you,” she said, extending her hand to meet Mikasa’s.

“The pleasure is mine.” Mikasa dropped her hand from Sasha's, holding her hands behind her back and twirling her fingers. She nodded to the keyboard. “You’re a very good player.”

“Thanks. My dad taught me forever ago.” When Sasha had finished winding up the cord in her hands, she grabbed a clip from her pocket and secured it before moving on to the second cord.

“How nice. Say, have you heard of Heart Attack?”

Straight to the point. The old Mikasa would have beat around the bush and engaged in small talk longer.

“The band?” Mikasa nodded. “Yeah, I’ve heard some of their music. Uh, Holiday, right?”

“That’s the one!” She was also . . . cheerier than normal, Jean noticed. “Well, I’m a publicist for their band. Basically I look around for places they could book gigs and events they could play at . . . All that fun stuff.” Sasha nodded, though it was clear that she wasn’t sure of the direction Mikasa was heading.

“And they’ve recently found themselves without a keyboard player.” Jean watched Sasha’s intrigue heighten. She had slightly tilted her head, her brows raising just the tiniest bit.

“Are they?”

“They certainly are. And, wouldn’t you know it, you fit the bill.”

Mikasa smiled. Sasha nodded, her gaze moving to where Jean stood behind the black-haired woman. He could tell she didn’t recognize him, which was proof that while people recognized their band name, they had no clue who the band actually was.

Sasha’s gaze flitted back to Mikasa, and she sat back on the battered stool at the keyboard. “So, what, are you holding auditions or something?”

“Nope. I’ve gone around to a few parks in search of street performers. The next big thing, you know?” Jean knew Mikasa was probably bullshitting this entire speil. He wasn’t even sure Mikasa knew talent when she saw it—she probably approached Sasha based on Jean’s reaction.

“So you’re a scout?”

“In a way, yes. But what I do is besides the point. The reason I’ve approached you is because I want to offer you the position.”

Sasha’s eyes widened. If she were standing, Jean thought she might have fallen over. “You want me to play with the band?”

Mikasa nodded. “I think you have what it takes to help them become the best artists in the world.”

Jean watched Sasha think. He watched the gears turning in her head as she considered the offer. After a moment, Mikasa reached into her pocket and pulled out a small notepad and pen.

“Here, I’ll give you my number. If you decide you want to join, go ahead and text me, okay?” Mikasa jotted down her phone before tearing the paper from the notepad and handing it to Sasha. Sasha gently grabbed it, bringing it closer to her as if it were a priceless artifact.

“Thank you. I’ll think about it and let you know.”

The two of them shook hands again before Mikasa turned. She motioned with her head toward the way her car was parked to Jean before the two of them fell into step together.

“You’re so stupid,” he said, though he didn’t mean it. He just wanted something to express his annoyance at Mikasa’s constant success with the band.

“No, I’m determined. This is your guys’ dream. Hell will freeze over before I let it fail.”

Jean hummed, but didn’t say anything in response.

The rest of the walk to Mikasa’s gray car was silent. It wasn’t until they had settled in, clicking their seatbelts into place and soft indie music playing through the car speakers, that Jean spoke.

“Do you think she’ll accept?”

Mikasa shrugged. She turned to look in the rear view mirrors before she started reversing. “Hopefully. I’ll be—”

Mikasa’s sentence was cut off when her phone started ringing. She had to double take at the number displayed on the console, but when she saw the unknown number, she smiled.

She pressed the green button, clearing her throat before saying, “This is Mikasa.”

“Hi. Sasha again. Uhm . . . When did you want me to meet everyone?”

Mikasa smiled, glancing at Jean. He rolled his eyes and looked out the window.

Heart Attack had a new keyboardist.

—

SASHA: Of course I accepted. I was living in my car when I met Mikasa and Jean in that park. It was not a good look. Honestly, I think Mikasa probably saved my life when she asked if I wanted to join their band.

I was excited, as one typically is when they join a band. Mikasa gave me a time and address to meet everyone that Saturday. It was the studio, and I met Mikasa in the lobby. She led me up to the room they were practicing in and introduced me. But when I walked in there was this . . . tension.

This was not what Sasha had imagined.

Well, maybe it was. There were three people in the control room talking amongst themselves, their voices unheard on the other side of the glass. The other four focused on their own instruments. Sasha didn’t know anyone’s name, but she would learn them as they spoke to each other.

Their actions were what Sasha would expect in a studio. She didn’t expect the silence. Or the looming feeling of doom lingering in the room.

“Sorry if they’re a little weird,” Mikasa whispered to her as she led Sasha to the keyboard. “Jean just announced he’s leaving the band.”

Sasha’s eyes widened, but she didn’t comment. She didn’t know which one Jean was, and even if she did it definitely wasn’t her place to offer her opinion.

She did, however, offer a soft hum. She felt like it would have come off as cold if she didn’t say something.

Mikasa handed her a green folder as Sasha sat herself in the stool. Mikasa briefly explained what songs they were running through today before she left the room altogether and joined the other people on the opposite side of the glass.

Sasha opened the folder, thumbing through the music until she found what she needed. She places the loose pages against the stand, something her personal keyboard didn’t have, before looking down at the keys.

It was a sleek instrument. Glossy black and probably brand new. Sasha adjusted the knobs to the setting she knew she liked before connecting a cord to the speaker.

“Alright, is everyone ready for the first run through?”

The voice over the intercom was loud. When Sasha looked up, she saw a blond man hovering over a microphone in the control room.

It was silent for a moment. When no one had any objections, the brunet with longer hair spoke up.

“We’re good. Ready when you are.”

“Sasha? You okay to continue?”

Sasha faltered for a moment as all eyes turned to her. She felt obligated to nod and say yes, especially with everyone’s gaze rested on her.

“Yeah. I’m good.”

Thank god she could sight read.

“Alright. When I hold my hand up get ready. I’ll count down from five. Once my hand goes down, Connie starts the beat.”

Connie held up two thumbs, drumsticks clenched in his hands, before lowering his hands and getting ready to hit his drums.

The blond in the booth held his hand up. Sasha watched as he lowered his fingers one at a time before pointing out.

Connie’s response was immediate. Sasha counted the beats in her head and internalized it, waiting for her cue.

The five of them spent the rest of the afternoon in the studio. When Erwin — the blond man that had been directing them from the sound booth — called for them to start shutting down the session, Sasha put her music back in the green folder and turned off the electronic keyboard.

She had learned everyone’s names and the loose dynamic they had with each other. On her way out, she waved to them all before closing the door behind her.

Once she got settled in her car, she exhaled a breath. A wide smile stretched across her face as the heater began working.

She drove to the parking lot of a gas station, triple checking to ensure her car was locked before pulling the lever that laid her seat back.

She stared at the roof of her car, wondering what this new opportunity would bring.

It had been a rough session, yes. No one had their parts perfect and some of the notes were discordant and there was only one run through where everyone came in when they were supposed to. But despite that, Sasha fell asleep with a smile.

That had been the most fun she’d ever had.

—

You were in a police station. You were in a police station and you were high.

Granted, your mind was clearer than it had been, but you were still high.

It was a first. One last hoorah! for the end of your junior year of sorts. Of course, it hadn’t really ended yet, but spring finals were less than two weeks away. You counted that as the end.

You, Jazzy and Ella had gone out. You’d planned to meet Dallas and a friend of his at the Chili’s just a few blocks from your apartment. After dinner, the five of you carpooled in Dallas’s car.

You really didn’t know how you ended up at the police station. You just remember Dallas’s friend, Rylan, pulling out a bag of weed.

Next thing you knew you were sitting in the back of a police car, the seats hard beneath you, and on the way to the station.

You were waiting for your dad. That’s what the officer had told you, anyway. You waited with both Ella and Jazzy, Ella absolutely knocked out and snoring against Jazzy’s shoulder. You leaned against her other shoulder. Dallas and Rylan had been taken someplace else.

“My dad’s gonna kill me,” you exhaled.

“We’ll go out together,” Jazzy responded.

“Who thought this would be a good idea?”

Jazzy shrugged, her shoulders lifting both yours and Ella’s head up. Ella snorts, but quickly falls into steady breathing.

Silence enveloped the two of you. There was no sound except for the slowly ticking clock, and even then each tick was quieter than you thought was normal.

You grabbed onto Jazzy’s hand and squeezed. She returned the squeeze, and it was just a few more moments before you heard voices and the door opened.

You lifted your head, meeting your father’s gaze. He was tired, his hair disheveled like he had woken up mere minutes earlier. Despite that, he was fully dressed in jeans and an old Blink-182 concert shirt.

He let out a breath at the sight of you and your two friends. You could tell it was from disappointment. That thought was enough to make you squeeze Jazzy’s hand harder and wish you could fall through the wall behind you.

Your dad beckoned you forward with his hand. You stood up and strode over to him. His arm wrapped around you once you were in his reach and he turned to walk out, but paused and turned back.

“Do you girls need a ride?” he asked Jazzy. 

She shook her head. “No, we’re okay, John. My grandma’s coming to get us.”

Your dad nodded. You have a weak wave to Jazzy before leaving.

You were told to wait in the car while your dad signed paperwork. You did as he said, not wanting to argue when he was so obviously done with you for the night.

You got into the front seat of his truck, turning on the heater and listening to the songs playing on the radio.

It was an oldies station. “Put Your Head On My Shoulder” by Paul Anka was playing, and you found yourself softly humming along to the song.

You quieted when your dad got in the car. He turned off the radio and started driving, which really only made the whole situation more serious since you were basically being forced to think about your actions.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled.

“It’s fine.” Your dad stopped at the red light, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel impatiently.

“No it’s not.”

“It’s not, but what can you do?”

Another moment of silence passed. The air was thick— so thick you felt like you were suffocating on it. The light turned green

John sighed, running a hand through his messy hair as he started driving again. “What is going on with you, Y/n?”

“What do you mean?” Your brows furrowed.

“You’re not acting the way you’ve been before. Your grades have gone down and now I have to pick you up from the police station? What the hell happened at Alice’s this summer?”

You just shrug. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened. You’d ghosted Damian, yes. Maybe you’d even grieved over it for a bit, but nothing had happened to make you . . . this.

John sighed again, glancing into the side mirrors as he switched lanes.

“You’re just like your mom.”

He’d mumbled it, so obviously you weren’t supposed to hear it. You weren’t even sure he meant to say it out loud, but the words felt like a knife to your heart.

To be like Alice was the last thing you’d ever wanted. You’d deliberately made so many choices so you didn’t turn out like her just to end up being compared to her anyway.

Maybe you were still a little sensitive from the weed, but tears sprung to your eyes at the statement. You sniffed before turning your head to look out the window. You wiped your eyes before the tears could fall.

“You have to get better, Y/n. I’m not going to support you if you can’t even support yourself.”

You take a moment to respond. Of course you want to agree. You want to say that you will get better, even if it was just so you didn’t disappoint him again.

But was that realistic? You knew that once a hole was dug it was hard to get out of. It was more difficult to build yourself up than it was to knock yourself down, and you had kicked yourself to the curb.

Your response left your mouth without much thought.

“Okay.”

—

It was almost more miserable in Tennessee than it was in New York. The only difference was the scenery.

You dad refused to let you go to Alice’s house the summer that followed your junior year. Naturally, you didn’t listen and bought a plane ticket anyway. Ella had driven you to the airport and dropped you off.

You hadn’t planned on going back. You didn’t even want to bother trying to get yourself out of the hole you’d dug, so what was the point of going back to school? You’d stay with your mom until you could buy your own place.

You’d picked up a job at a local diner, working every shift you could and shoving your tips into an emptied baby puffs container that sat on your desk, right below your bulletin board. The board was empty, save for one thing, and that was the card Hange had given you almost a year ago.

You considered the offer every day. You were too ashamed to ever show your face at your dad’s apartment again, and Alice was constantly jumping the line between being suicidal and a semi-productive member of society. Did you really have as much in America as you did last year? Would it be more worth it to go to Germany?

Every day you reconsidered the offer, and every day you gave yourself no answer and instead went to bed. You found yourself longing for that even more day after day.

It took copious amounts of courage for you to finally call one of the numbers listed on the battered card. It took you a moment to figure out how to do it, but a Google search later had you holding your phone up to your ear and waiting for someone to pick up.

“This is Hange Zoë.”

They’d said it in German. It took you just a moment to translate what they said in your head, and when you did you exhaled in relief. It was still Hange’s number.

You internally thanked your late grandmother for teaching you German when you were little. You had no real reason to use it, but it was coming in handy now.

“Hi. Uhm, I’m not sure if you remember me, but this is Y/n.”

Hange was silent for a moment. They switched to English when they said, “Remind me where I’d know you from.”

You took a deep breath. This was more nerve-wracking than you’d anticipated.

“You came to Brooklyn around this time last year. I was performing at a blue’s bar and you came up to me after.”

You hoped to god they remembered who you were. If they didn’t, then any hope you had of going somewhere would be blown out.

“Oh! Yes, Y/n Kraney.”

“It’s actually L/n now,” you softly corrected. You’d stopped going by Kraney after your dad compared you to Alice.

“Y/n L/n. Sounds like the next star.” You smiled. You couldn’t tell if they were being genuine or just saying that to butter you up, but it made you feel good nonetheless. “Now, I assume you’re calling because you’ve reconsidered my offer, is that correct?”

“Yes,” you said, perhaps a bit too quickly.

“Wonderful!” You heard shuffling coming from their line. Your brows furrowed in confusion from the sound, but you didn’t comment on it. “Is it right to assume you’re going to be moving here?”

“Yes.”

“What sorts of arrangements will you need? We can get you almost anything.”

You stuttered, wiping your sweaty palm against your pants. “A ticket there. And a place to stay. It doesn’t have to be extravagant, just . . . something.”

Hange went silent for a moment. You assumed they were writing something down. “Alright. We can get that done for you. Say, I’ve been wanting to show my coworkers your talent since I watched you in New York. Ya think that if I gave you a date and location you’d be able to come to an open house?”

“Like, where I’d sing?”

“Yeah. Lots of execs and producers go things like this to scout out the next big thing. I want to show Erwin we have that.”

“Okay . . . Yeah. Sure. Just let me know where and when.”

Hange agreed. They told you about an open night that they would be present at a bar called Quasimodo. You agreed to meet them there, and continued to make more plans about how you would get there.

Another thing you requested was a translator. Or someone that could teach you more German. Hange immediately gave you the number of a friend before promptly hanging up.

You exhaled when they did, wondering if you’d regret this decision later down the line.

—

Y/N: I think going to Germany at that time was probably the best decision I could have made. Who can say if I would even be here if I hadn’t decided to call Hange that day.

I boarded a plane nearly a week later. I met with Hange and they showed me to the apartment that had been rented for me, and I took a few German classes. I met up with Hange and Erwin at Quasimodo a few days later, and Erwin agreed to keep me signed with them.

CONNIE: I think someone told me once that Y/n was the one to go on after us at Quasimodo. I think it might have been Hange, actually. But I remember thinking how crazy it was that our paths were so close to crossing before we officially came together.

EREN: After the Quasimodo gig it was maybe . . . two years before Y/n came in for “The River.” I think. Without her, Heart Attack would have been a one hit wonder.

Y/N: Yeah, it was about two years before Hange proposed a collaboration. Those two years weren’t very eventful for me. Hange and I produced more professional sounding versions of all the songs I had made, and I was steadily growing.

JEAN: Erwin came into the studio with us one day. He told us that the label wanted to cut ties with the band.

ARMIN: We weren’t making very good music. Everything we made was doing horribly. Our songs actually flopped so bad that Erwin pulled a couple strings to have those songs taken off the public record, actually.

SASHA: That was really scary for me. Even if we weren’t doing well, being with Heart Attack was already giving me a better life. I had managed to move out of my car into a small studio apartment, and I was terrified I would lose that.

EREN: Erwin said he was this close to giving us up. I was convinced that session would be our last in studio, but then he brought up Y/n.

Y/N: I remember going out for coffee with my friend, Annie, when Hange called me. They proposed the idea of a collab with a band I had never heard of.

MIKASA: Adding Y/n into the mix was . . . an interesting choice. Not to say it was a bad one, but . . .

ARMIN: The girl Erwin proposed we make a song with had a very different sound than the one we were reaching for. We’d heard one of her songs on the radio before, and yeah, it was good, but it’s wasn’t really what we did.

CONNIE: After Erwin brought it up to us, we went back to the apartment and listened to some of her music. Jean was definitely not a fan.

JEAN: She was a fucking flower. All she did was write songs about her exes and how much she missed them or songs about how she wanted to find love.

CONNIE: He and Eren got into a fight about it. They were yelling to each other about whether or not to do the collab without consulting the rest of us.

ARMIN: Eren snapped and said, “Well you’re leaving the band anyway, so what does it matter?” 

EREN: He threw a fucking plate at me.

JEAN: Did he mention the knife he pointed at me?

EREN: I was cooking and made a general motion. It was not that dramatic.

MIKASA: It was a really bad argument. Jean and Eren have always had this strained relationship. The best analogy I can think of is like toxic exes. They were always fighting, but when they were able to lift each other up they succeeded together. A lot of the success we had came from them and Y/n as a trio. When they weren’t at each other’s throats, of course.

ARMIN: Jean had obviously brought up leaving the band before, but I think he had been putting it off because he didn’t want to separate himself from us. After that night, though, he was dead set on leaving as soon as possible.

What changed his mind?

ARMIN: Honestly, I couldn’t tell you. I have my suspicions, but . . . I’ll let you ask and find out from him. 

JEAN: I told Eren I would do one more song, and that song would be the one with Y/n. And when it wasn’t a hit, I would laugh in his face and tell him I told him so.

Y/N: I told Hange that I would give the band a try, but if I didn’t like what they were doing then I was calling it quits.

So you liked it more than you had anticipated?

Y/N: [smiling] Yeah. I guess you could say that.

the exposition is almost over I swear they all officially meet in the next chapter

i did not mean for this chapter to take me so long either i’m so sorry 😭

TAGLIST: @arlerts-angel @conniesrockstargf @fvckingeetar @pluckyduxck @kkkingsman @beaniebaby12 @catkidsposts if you'd like to join the taglist please comment or DM to let me know!

next part >>

[aresofparadis]

2 baddies (preview)

pairing: himbo!eren x f!reader x himbo! jean

summary: years of I don't need men attitude led you to rejecting nearly every man who came your way. you knew everything you needed to survive, what did you need a man for?

the reality is... there are some services only a few men... can provide.

tags: ⚠️ 18+ fic!! minors dni!

shared interest, love triangle, no established romantic relationship, FWB, edging, domxdomxdom, switch, car sex, pda, degrading, player eren + jean, multiple partners, adult drinking, legal marj*ana, pot head eren and jean, v*ping, sm*t, oral, m*sterbating, partying, best friend jean and eren.

taglist(OPEN):

coming soon!!

[lanadelreylover11]

I feel like a virgin when I search up “x Reader” with a new character I like

[sultrysparkles]

"cmon baby one more..." he coos into your ear, nails still digging into the fleshy fat of your ass as he guides your hips up and down on his girthy cock. he was determined to get one more orgasm from you. he had to.

it felt like forever. you had been bouncing up and down on his shaft for what felt like ages. you couldn't even recall when it all had started. one orgasm to another, he simply couldn't get enough. he was addicted.

you felt that same knot in your stomach tighten again, this time it was much tighter and intense. the grip you had on his shoulders tightened, your nails engraving small crescents.

your boyfriend had noticed this, he swiftly grabs onto your waist, lifting you up and slamming himself into you at an cervix bruising pace. it was so quick you could barely could even process your own high approaching by second. then you felt it.

back arched, eyes rolled all the way back, jaw dropped, legs trembling. it was intense and heavenly. you've never felt anything so good in your life. it was so good that you didn't even notice the fluid you had squirted everywhere.

as you came back down from your high you realized your boyfriends thrusts had came to an abrupt end. "w-whyd you stop?" you ask, somewhat disappointed. but your boyfriend was looking into your eyes, a cheeky smirk plastered all over his face. "dirty girl- you squirted on me..." he panted out, slowly beginning to buck his hips into your cunt again.

you notice the tacky thin layer of liquid painted between your thighs and his lap. you let out a breathy sigh before your boyfriend whispers into your ear.

"y'think you could do that again for me pretty?"

gojo, geto, nanami, kirishima, hawks, denki, eren, jean + any of ur favs !!

[levenlike11]

his hands come up to your cheeks and hold, looking- rather staring into your soul. you smile and your cheeks in his hands squish up making them look chubbier.

"wanna bite you." he says it still holding instense eye contact. you laugh and a faint smile appears on his face. "i missed you." his head drops on your shoulder and he takes a deep breath of your perfume.

"missed you too." you put your head on his, as if it hasn't only been less than a full day since you last saw each other. he thanks the owners of the place for the dim blue lighting in the dark room as it conceals the blush starting to make itself known on his face.

his hands that are hugging your figure travels down and down until they hit your waist and sneak under your top to caress your soft skin. every inch his fingertips touch burn with excitement and leaves goosebumps on his way.

"missed you so. damn. much." he sighs into your shoulder and places a small kiss on there, slowly moving upwards on your neck. you open yourself to him and throw your head back, enjoying his acts. his hands are softly scratching your back while he keeps kissing and nipping at your skin.

"show me how much you missed me then." you whisper near his ear and peck his lobe, knowing it makes his knees weak every time you do that. his attention is now diverted to your chin, biting it tenderly. "baby-" you whine when he licks the part he bit to soothe the pain he caused.

"my pretty thing. all mine." staring into your eyes again, he touches your nose playfully with his pointer finger. you close your eyes and lean into him, letting your lips touch gently at first. it doesn't take long until he's exploring your mouth feverishly, teeth clattering and tongues brushing against each other with lust.

you push him off of you for a second to take a breath but he chases after your lips and doesn't let you leave. you can taste the drink he previously had on his tongue and it mixes with the minty taste your altoids left in your mouth. he thinks he's found heaven, right here in your arms.

when he eventually pulls back, you can't help but giggle at all the lipstick stains on the lower half of his face. (and trust my word on this one, he wears it proudly until you force him to wash it off- which leads to another make out session, in the bathroom this time.)

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

eren, jean, levi (aot) geto, megumi, toji, nanami (jjk) SUNARIN, hinata, iwaizumi, akaashi (hq) reo, chigiri, rin, sae (blue lock) draken, wakasa, mitsuya (tokyorev) giyuu, sanemi (demon slayer) and anyone else you'd like!

all feedback is extremely appreciated, sorry for the inactivity!🥹🫶🏻

[daemontargaryenwhore]

He couldn't afford to lose another kid knowing he's going to lose one just for the battle to end.

[slvtmeout]

Why can’t one of my fictional men spawn in my room and fuck me senseless feed me with their cum make me gasp for air pound me vertically horizontally idc I need them on me in me under me fucking however they want ankles behind ears type of fucking big bulge on my belly from their cocks type of fucking yk thank you bye pound my pussy please

[bwabys-scenarios]

NSFW

He likes to look up at you while he eats you out with those pretty eyes full of lust… “look at me, angel. look at how good I’m making you feel.”

He loves holding your hand, and if you look away he’ll hold your bud between his teeth lightly as a warning…

He usually doesn’t like to see you cry, but your eyes are so pretty when you’re crying from all the pleasure he’s given you.

He likes to tongue fuck you too but man… he loves sucking on your clit.

He likes to hear you whimper and whine, and loves when you tug on his hair or give him a little guidance

He can’t deny he gets really hard when you gently push his head towards your entrance, wanting some attention there too!!

The sounds…

He’s squeezing your thighs as he sucks, nibbles, licks… you’d think he was starving for pussy

He really just wants to make you feel good, but honestly he eats you out because he really really enjoys it.

He would do it regardless but… it does help that he loves it!

Trying to do anything around the house after he’s gotten a taste of pussy is hard. And god sitting on this man’s face?? He would go to cloud 9…

——————

|| GOJO|| NANAMI|| GETO|| SUKUNA|| CHOSO||TOJI ||KURAPIKA|| LEORIO|| CHROLLO|| ILLUMI|| FEITAN|| EREN|| JEAN|| ARMIN|| RENGOKU|| OBANAI|| TENGEN|| YOUR FAV

[saintkaylaa]

What Leg Is It Down .ᐟ

ʚɞ: levi, eren, armin, jean, porco, reiner

note: you ask them what leg/side is their dick/cock down !

warnings: cursing, sexual, crack, kms joke on jean’s, f!reader

I BLOCK MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS

[rumisgf]

backshots with eren are absolutely lethal. like, just imagine.

your head is completely buried into the pillow. eren has your back arched real good for him, one hand on your back to keep it that way. you huff out a moan which each of his thrusts, your slick painting his cock and slowly dripping down your thighs as he’s working your third orgasm. you lean yourself forward in an attempt to give yourself mercy, only for him pull you back all the way on his dick. any time you raise a hand to push him back or brace yourself, he slams it back down and tightens his grip on you. it’s all so dirty.

“fuck ren- i can’t- fuckkk…”

“uh uh, stop running. take this dick.”

he takes a hand and slaps your ass, adding to his collection of red/dark purple marks he’s created. you can barely hold yourself up and as bad as you wanna tap out, he just feels so good.

“s-so good…’s too much.”

and he wouldn’t stop anyway, the lewd sounds of your cunt squelching with every thrust and the view of your ass moving back against him is sending him to heaven. not only that, he knows you love this almost as much as he does.

“throw that ass back. yeah, just like that. my good little girl.”

no matter how rough he was you did what you were told and you took him so well, you really are such a good girl for him. your ass was slamming against him as you took every inch of him, you slurring your words and moaning out for him like a prayer.

“s-so wet..y’ make me so wet..”

and oh, he knows. no matter how much you joke around or are too embarrassed to admit it, eren goes to sleep at night knowing no one could ever have you screaming like this, only he knows how to have you soaked in a matter of seconds.

© rumisgf

[vampireg1rl]

i have two types

[crazychaoticizzy]

TRACK ONE: Pilot/Heart Attack

Heart Attack: the greatest rock band in history. Decades after the nasty breakup that followed their final performance in Dodger Stadium, Los Angeles, the six band members finally agree to separate interviews that reveal how they came together and their rise to fame.

And what led to their sudden downfall.

EREN X READER X JEAN

CONTENT: multipart fic, rock band au, love triangle, slow burn, angst

WORD COUNT: 1.1k

Series Masterlist

AOT Masterlist

DODGER STADIUM, LOS ANGELES After their highly anticipated performance at Dodger Stadium, Los Angeles, Jean Kirschtein tore off the neck of his bass on stage and ripped a hole in the drums. After announcing his resignation from the famous band, Heart Attack, Eren Jäger punched him.

Following Jean Kirschtein's resignation, Heart Attack fell apart. The performance in Dodger Stadium was their last, and the six band members have not been seen together since.

This biography is made up of a series of interviews compiled over the years by Olivia Russo. This is the first time the band and others involved have spoken on their scandals since they broke up.

JEAN KIRSTEIN, bassist for Heart Attack: Just sit here?  Alright. Yeah, of course. Sure you don’t want anything to drink? Okay. [smiling] Hi.

EREN JÄGER, main male vocalist for Heart Attack: We’re gonna make this quick, ‘kay? I don’t wanna talk about this shit. Ask your questions, get a snack or something, and leave.

ARMIN ARLERT, guitarist for Heart Attack: Do I look okay? I dunno, I just feel nervous, I guess. I haven’t really talked about this in years, especially on camera.

SASHA BRAUS, keyboardist for Heart Attack: Oh, I’m so excited for this. Did my hair curl weird? No? Okay. What do you want me to do? Introduce myself? I don’t know, everything’s changed so much since the last time I did a one on one interview like this. Hi, my name is Sasha Braus. I was the former keyboardist and supporting female vocalist for Heart Attack.

CONNIE SPRINGER, drummer for Heart Attack: Ready, kid? You’re in for a ride. I hope you brought snack or something to hold you by, this is a long story.

MIKASA ACKERMAN, photographer and costume designer for Heart Attack: This is for a documentary, right? Or a novel? Oh, okay. Either way, I’ll try to remember everything as best I can.

Y/N L/N, main female vocalist for Heart Attack: Hey. Yeah, of course. Mess with whatever. Maybe you can hide the circles under my eyes. [laughs]

What did you think of Heart Attack?

MIKASA: Well, it was Eren’s dream, so I just kind of went with it. It was fun, though. I really liked everyone we worked with. Most of them were really nice.

EREN: We were on top of the fucking world. The biggest band of the century. Everyone knew our name and we were making millions. I don’t know why Jean wanted to throw that shit away.

JEAN: You want honesty? I fucking hated it. Every single second.

CONNIE: Ooo, getting into the deep shit already? Well, I personally thought it was so fun. More so after we got famous, but it was great even back when we were just teenagers in Mrs. Yeager’s basement.

ARMIN: I kind of felt… indifferent? I mean, yeah I liked it. I was spending time with my best friends. But I would have preferred something quieter, maybe? Something that didn’t have us at each other’s throats all the time, at least.

SASHA: Well, it was definitely stressful. God, especially when I was pregnant. I was so worried about what we were going to do then. I mean, I couldn’t be up on stage at almost nine months. Are you crazy? But then for half of our songs the keyboard is a really big part so it’s not like I just couldn’t be there.

Y/N: I really enjoyed it. Yeah, there were a couple times I maybe wanted to kill someone, but it was fun. Lifelong friends, some of them. All of them, actually, but . . .

SASHA: Oh, well. We figured it out in the end. [smiles]

Y/N: It didn’t end well, as I’m sure you know.

JEAN: What were we? A rock band, according to Google, but what we were doing wasn’t rock.

CONNIE: It’s kind of funny, actually. Before Sasha we were all so uncreative and couldn’t come up with song titles. With good reason, too, that shit is hard. Trying to sum up your song in a couple words? Pfft. We were all useless, especially Eren.

ARMIN: Only the super old fans know this, but our very first song ever, track one on our debut album, was originally called “Pilot.”

EREN: Yes, like the fucking first episode of a show that doesn’t know if it’s gonna do well or some shit. It was not my idea.

JEAN: It was Eren’s idea.

MIKASA: I tried convincing them to name it something else, but they wouldn’t budge. I suggested just their band name and they said, “No, that’s too basic. We need something unique.” They didn’t change it until Scout Records told them to. And guess what they changed it to.

CONNIE: We changed the first song to “Heart Attack” in… let’s see, 2018 or somewhere close to that. 2019, maybe?

JEAN: Naming our first album “Debut” was Eren’s dumb ass idea, too. Uncreative prick.

EREN: No one else had any better ideas, so we just went with what I said by default. It’s not like anyone cared, anyway.

What can you tell me about Marco Bodt?

SASHA: Sorry, darling. I don’t know much about him other than he was the band’s first keyboardist.

Y/N: Just what Annie and everyone else told me way back when. I don't remember much.

MIKASA: Oh, I wasn’t around them enough at the beginning to know him. That was around the same time my mom had started getting me ready to take over the store, so I spent almost all of my free time with her.

ARMIN: I don’t really remember him. I had him in my Chemistry class before I dropped out. He was my table partner, I think. He was nice, though. We tutored each other sometimes. And, of course, he was over at Eren’s with us a lot.

CONNIE: I loved Marco, man. If you met him, you knew you had just met the sun. He always had such a bright outlook on everything. He was like Switzerland when we started arguing. And he always came up with the best compromises.

EREN: Marco was amazing. I felt bad all the time because he was always breaking up arguments. I have no clue why he was friends with us.

ARMIN: We were definitely annoying. It took a special kind of patience to deal with us, especially at that age. Marco always handled it so well, though. I think he and I would’ve ended up being much better friends if we were given the chance.

JEAN: Someone did their homework. You know about Marco? Course you do, you’re fucking [incoherent]. Uhm, Marco… God, I haven’t talked about him since he died. I don’t even think the really old fans know about him, to be honest. Well, Marco was . . . I think he was the first boy I ever loved.

i'm so excited for this series you guys don't even know. i have so much planned and i hope you guys have as much fun reading it as i had writing it

TAGLIST: @arlerts-angel if you'd like to join the taglist please comment to let me know!

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[fatherbrat]

LET'S SNEAK, AOT MULTI

sum. various aot boys and how they fuck you while trying to keep your relationship a secret. inspired by lyrics from sneak by leon thomas :p

feat. eren jaeger. jean kirstein. connie springer. armin arlert.

cw. cheating/infidelity, missionary & doggy, face-sitting, a nasty blowjob, praise, riding/cowgirl, creampie, office sex, risky sex, hold the moan, reader has multiple orgasms, some angst if you squint, not proofread...

wc. 2.7k

EREN JAEGER “can i fuck you in the daytime, daytime? even though that pussy isn’t mine.”

Eren’s moral compass is a bit skewed.

But you wouldn’t dare tell him that. He’d only throw it right back in your face, claiming you're worse. You’re the one with a boyfriend after all. He’s single. Technically.

“Where’s the boyfriend?” Eren asks as soon as he crosses the threshold into your home. He doesn’t bother waiting for a response before pulling his shirt off.

You close the front door behind you and sigh. “He’s out of town. Look…” You hesitate, not really wanting to finish your sentence, even though you know it’s long overdue.

Eren turns to look at you, one eyebrow raised. “Don’t tell me you’ve grown a conscience.” He doesn’t sound annoyed, or even surprised. More like…intrigued. Regardless, the words make you wince.

“He wants to take me to meet his parents,” you tell him, avoiding eye contact.

Eren lets out a whistle. There’s a moment of silence, both of you lost in your own thoughts, before you hear the sound of Eren unzipping his pants.

You stare at him. “What are you doing?”

He smirks. “I’m already here. Might as well go out with a bang.”

You don’t bother wasting any time pretending you weren’t hoping he’d say that. You strip, and almost immediately you’re pressed against a wall. Eren kisses you in a way that can only be described as needy, like he’s taking extra and stowing it away for later.

His hands are everywhere, squeezing and caressing and memorizing.

When he lays you down on the sofa, you aren’t expecting him to plant his tongue between your thighs.

“Eren–”

“Shhh,” he whispers, lifting his head to meet your eyes. “This is the last time, right?” He waits for you to nod before continuing. “Let me savor it.”

He makes surprisingly quick work of making you come and kisses you right after so you can taste yourself on his lips. When he fucks you he does it slowly, agonizingly, eyes glued to your face as he watches your lips part when he bottoms out.

Your nails dig into his back. “Eren, don’t tease,” you huff. “Faster.”

He smiles down at you, shaking his head slightly. “You’re so impatient,” he says, clicking his tongue. “What happened to letting me savor it?”

You squirm beneath him. “Fuck savoring. Fuck me.”

Eren doesn’t need to hear you say it twice. He picks up the pace, dropping his forehead against your shoulder as he grabs your waist.

“Gonna miss this pussy,” he breathes against your skin. The way he says it is tender, a stark contrast to the rough way he pounds you. You wonder, just for a second, if he really means that he’s going to miss you.

But Eren can see your mind wandering. He taps your cheek.

“Hey. Pay attention. You haven’t come enough times to start losing your mind already.”

His eyes narrow as he takes in the sourness of your expression, unimpressed by his statement.

He huffs and pulls out. “Turn around.”

“What?”

“Turn around and get on all fours.”

You frown but comply. He rests one hand flat against your back, pushing you down into the perfect arch before he prods your slit with the tip of his cock.

“Gonna make you see stars,” he mutters, before burying himself inside you.

And he does. His rhythm is dizzying, and it has you biting into the couch cushions, groaning with every stroke.

His arm wraps around your hips so he can lay his hand flat on your lower belly. When he travels lower and starts to circle your clit, all the muscles in your core tighten. He doesn’t slow down when you reach your climax. In fact, you think he goes faster.

“Fuck, Erennn,” you whine, dragging out the last consonant of his name as you dig your fingernails into your palm.

“I know, I know. Takin’ me so well. One more.”

You try to remember what he’d always say, something about good girls coming in threes, or maybe third time’s the charm. Something that meant he’d always make you come three times before leaving. It’s hard to think of what it was when you can hear him slamming against your ass.

He draws out the third one in no time, calling you his good girl as you moan into the sofa.

It’s bittersweet when he pulls out, and you wish he would make you come in fives or something. Eren gives you a look that tells you he can tell what you’re thinking.

He presses his lips to your forehead as he pulls his pants on and you can sense the goodbye in it.

“Take care of yourself, mkay? I’ll see you around.”

You watch him leave, wondering if you’ll see him for real.

JEAN KIRSTEIN “know you wanna keep this thing discreet. hear you calling through the streets.”

You’ve molded Jean into the perfect fuck buddy.

He’ll drop everything to come over the minute you text, doesn’t spread your business around, and always makes you come first.

“Right there, right there, fuck.” You grind against his face, throwing your head back as your grip around the headboard tightens. 

Jean hums into your pussy as you orgasm, grazing his teeth against your clit as you ride it out. 

Your body goes limp and he swiftly comes out from underneath you, laying you down on the bed gently as he peppers kisses across your skin.

“I’m gonna grab you some water,” he says, not waiting for a response before leaving your room. 

You watch him go, a small smile sitting on your face. He’s become so attuned to you, always at your beck and call, willing to cater to you in any way you ask. 

It’s the kind of behavior that makes you want to suck his dick. 

So, when he returns from the kitchen holding a glass of ice water, you ask him. 

“Do you wanna throat fuck me?”

Jean freezes, staring at you like you’ve grown a second head. You suppose you have—it’s been nine months since the two of you started fucking and you have yet to go down on him (not that he’s ever complained). Still, you’d be offended at the look he’s giving you if it weren’t for the obvious erection growing in his pants.

You tilt your head to the side, eyeing his crotch before meeting his gaze. “Yes or no?”

“Yes,” he answers quickly, suddenly unfrozen and eager. He places the glass on your dresser, slipping out of his sweatpants and moving towards you. 

Jean watches you roll off the bed and onto the floor, sitting up on your knees and looking at him with an expression that almost makes him dizzy.

Something feverish blazes in his eyes when he stands in front of you, and you have to work to keep the excitement off your face when he tugs down his boxers. 

He strokes his cock idly, watching you look up at him. “You sure?”

This time you can’t help the grin that spreads across your face. “I’m sure.”

He taps his dick on your lips, tentatively, and you open up. He shudders when you run your tongue along the underside of his tip. 

Jean cradles your head in his hands as he pushes himself all the way into your mouth. There’s a shaky inhale from him when he hits the back of your throat. 

“Oh shit,” he breathes. 

You close your lips around him, hollowing out your cheeks, and something in him snaps.

The speed at which he thrusts into your mouth is almost violent, and he moans when you gag, the pads of his fingertips pressing harder into your scalp. He’s already sensitive from being rock hard the whole time you sat on his face, and his sloppy in-and-out, in-and-out motion drags your spit everywhere–your face, his pelvis, even your chest. 

The feeling of him hitting your throat makes your eyes water, and you feel him growing impossibly harder against your tongue when you look up at him with glassy eyes.

He doesn’t last long, not with you looking at him like that. He’s mumbling an apology as he fills your mouth, saying if you weren’t so perfect he would’ve lasted longer. You’re grinning as you swallow down his cum, watching how his eyebrows furrow as he looks at your neck, and he kneels down to kiss you immediately. 

When he pulls away, he’s looking at you with a soft sort of wonder. Admiration almost. A bashful smile pulls at his lips. 

“Can we do that again?”

CONNIE SPRINGER “she like rich niggas, i’m her type. bored at the crib, she tryna pipe.”

conniiieee come over, im bored ;)

Connie smiles to himself when he reads your texts, his dick nearly stirring to life at the implication of your messages.

Despite your agreement to keep your… situation lowkey, he always pulls up to your apartment complex on his motorcycle, practically alerting the masses that he’s about to come upstairs and rock your shit. 

You meet him at your front door, scowling. “Why do you always show up on that loud ass bike? I know you have a car now.”

Connie just smiles, scooting around you to come inside. “You keeping tabs on me, baby?”

You roll your eyes and kick the door shut. “Sasha won’t stop raving about how cool it is.” You do air quotes around the word ‘cool,’ trying to imitate the lilt in Sasha’s voice when she talks about it.

Connie drops his motorcycle helmet on the shoe rack by the door. “It is cool. If you’d stop being so stubborn and take me back I could take you for a ride.”

But there’s really only one kind of ride you’re interested in right now! Which is how you end up straddling him on the couch, pressing kisses into the side of his neck.

Connie’s hands rest loosely on your hips, letting you grind against him as slowly as you want. Your breathing is shaky, sweat coating your skin, a byproduct of the last four orgasms. You lift yourself off him on trembling legs, higher and higher until just the head of Connie’s cock remains inside you. You catch his eyes briefly, and the mirth swimming in them is the only warning you have for what he does next.

His fingers tighten their grip on your hips, tugging you back down on his cock harshly. A strangled sound escapes you, air catching in your throat with the sudden movement.

“Con-”

He kisses you, cutting you off as he bounces you up and down. 

“Last one, mama,” he says against your lips. 

You can feel an ache in your legs from them being bent underneath you for so long, your head is fogged up with leftover pleasure, and there’s a pressure building up deep in your stomach. This is why you keep letting him come over all these months after your breakup. He knows just how to wear you out.

Connie pulls you against him, chest to chest, and wraps his arms around you. He lets you rest your forehead against his as his cock brushes up against your g-spot, forcing moans out of you that can only be described as wanton.

“That’s it, baby. Nobody fucks you like this, huh?”

You shake your head, your nose nudging his. “Just you.”

Connie practically purrs in satisfaction, right before he comes inside you. You melt against him, the pressure in your abdomen releasing as you cry out. Connie’s lips sweep across your jaw, patient and gentle while he waits for you to come down.

When you do, he leans back, eyelids heavy with contentment. You can feel him softening inside you. You already know what he’s about to say just based on the expression he’s wearing, but you wait for him to ask before giving the same response you always do.

“Y’know we could do that all the time if you’d take me back.” He doesn’t sound as heartbroken as he used to, like he’s grown used to this back-and-forth the two of you have going on.

You give him a wry smile, wiping beads from the back of your neck. “We didn’t break up because the sex was bad, Connie.”

He kisses you then, soft and lingering. “Worth a shot.”

He cleans you up and you let him take a shower and rummage through your drawers for the few pieces of clothing you never returned to him. When he’s leaving, he throws a wink your way, picking up his motorcycle helmet with one hand and unlocking the door with the other.

"Text again soon, alright? Love you."

ARMIN ARLERT “always down for an afternoon delight, but i can never crash and spend the night.”

“We have to stop,” you whisper halfheartedly, tangling your fingers in Armin’s hair as he kisses you.

Armin smiles against your lips. “Why?” he asks, his hands traveling down the length of your pencil skirt. He starts kissing down your neck, mouth going lower and lower until his fingers reach the hem of your skirt.

He pulls your skirt up over your ass, letting it bunch up around your waist. You giggle when he turns you around and gently presses your cheek against the door.

“I’ll get fired if HR finds out,” you say, arching your back as he pulls down your underwear. Your wet cunt feels a rush of cool air when he does, and you gasp when Armin plunges his fingers in. You feel the weight of his chin on your shoulder as he presses his chest against your back.

“But she’s so wet,” he whispers in your ear. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you like that HR could find out.”

You neither confirm nor deny, just humming and wiggling your bare ass in response.

He chuckles, the sound traveling straight down to your core. Armin doesn’t give any warning before he slips himself inside you. He pulls you away from the door after the fact, covering your mouth with one hand and wrapping the other arm around your waist.

The hardest thing (other than Armin) about keeping your lunch “meetings” secret is the fact that neither of you are particularly quiet. Armin muffles your moans with his hand and muffles his own by biting into the junction of your neck and your shoulder. There’s nothing to be done about the sound of his hips slapping against your ass or his cock sliding in and out of your pussy. All the two of you can do is hope nobody comes back from lunch early and walks past the copy room on the fourth floor. 

(But anyways, where’s the fun in it without a little risk.)

You moan into Armin’s hand when he hits a particular spot and he slows. He uses the hand on your face to tug your head back. “So noisy,” he says, lips brushing against your neck as he speaks. “I know you want the whole office to hear, but don’t be so obvious.”

Your walls clench around him and he hisses, picking up the pace once more.

“You like thinking about our coworkers hearing you?” You shake your head, but the way your pussy squeezes him proves you to be a bold-faced liar. 

Armin’s teeth graze your shoulder, his breath hitching as his hips lose their rhythm. 

“Go ahead then,” he whispers against your skin. “Let them hear.” He moves his hand from your mouth and loosely wraps his fingers around your neck instead. 

Another moan threatens to escape you, but you refuse, rolling your lips between your teeth in an attempt to keep quiet. 

Armin bites you then, and you gasp loudly. His thrusts become careless as he frantically chases his own orgasm. He brings his hand back up to your face, this time slipping two fingers between your lips and pressing down on your teeth so you can’t close your mouth. 

You can hear the faint sound of footsteps that signal the end of your lunch break. A door opens, and voices become audible as your coworkers get closer.

Armin smacks your ass, hard, and it’s enough to pull you over the edge. The two of you come together, him sinking his teeth into your skin to suppress his own moans. You bite down on his fingers, but it does little to help. You’re positive the entire office can hear you screaming his name.

(づ๑•ᴗ•๑)づ♡

[cxvii666]

no-context boyfriend txts w/ ten

FEATURING!

YUJI ITADORI, DENKI KAMINARI, HANTA SERO, hitoshi shinsou, eren yeager, ryuunoske tanaka, KEIGO TAKAMI, takuma ino, connie springer, hajime iwaizumi, issei matsukawa, (i could see) yuuta okkotsu, osamu miya, tetsurou kuroo, satori tendou, yuu nishinoya, koushi sugawara, satoru gojo, also suguru geto (he gives closet weirdo), jean kirstein, yuuji terushima, togata mirio + ur faves ofc x