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Loathing

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As he takes himself in hand on quiet nights when he's sure everyone else is asleep and lost to the world, he hates himself.

Hates himself because he wants this so badly, feels the heat rising low in his stomach and stiffening under the cloth of his pyjama pants. He slips one hand down past the elastic and the fabric, and feels himself already hard and leaking slightly with precum.

Jean screws his eyes shut and prays to whatever gods still exist on this damn earth that nobody wakes up.

It's completely and utterly shameful, what he dreams about at night when he has one hand wrapped around his cock and another gripping his bedsheets tightly, trying not to rip them in his lust induced delirium. He dreams of someone pushing his head down onto the mattress, ripping off his clothes, hearing the harsh rip of the seams and the sound of their grunting above him. He subconsciously spreads his legs wider, imagining someone else's hands between them, forcing them apart and he struggles a little, even though part of his mind knows very well no one else is there.

The hand that was working slowly on his cock moves from the front to the back as Jean carefully slides one finger inside himself. Ere- He wouldn't use lube, He would just take him dry and want to feel the blood around his cock; Jean's blood.

Jean presses another finger inside of himself and pretends in his fantasy that he's attempting to squirm away; to plead for mercy. But he can't make any sound here, because he's surrounded by at least ten other trainees in dangerously close proximity and one of them is him.

He thinks he'd rather die than let them find out about this.

Jean thrusts three fingers deep inside himself and lets out a small whine before clamping his other hand over his mouth to silence himself. He wouldn't let him make any noise, He would hold his hand over Jean's mouth, just like this, and whisper to him in his ear: You like this don't you? You dirty slut. All those times we fought, you weren't trying to win were you? You just wanted me to hold you down and fuck you; rip off your clothes and force myself on you whilst you squirmed and begged for mercy. Well now you're getting what you want.

Jean's hand moves faster inside himself, pressing deeper and deeper against that spot, stifling all noises with his hand and praying that the harsh sound of his breathing isn't audible. He pushes his fingers harder into his ass and begs, inside his mind, for mercy, mercy please--

He knows the person he is imagining doesn't exist, not in reality, but he's so close now and he doesn't care, he just wants to be taken and used and left broken, covered in blood and sweat and cum, dried tears leaving marks running down his face.

Jean imagines the feel of those hands on his hips, that brown hair against his neck as He reaches down to bite on the skin of his shoulder, drawing blood with His sharp canines, that voice telling him to take it you whore, you fucking filthy whore--

Jean comes moaning Eren's name.

He hates himself.